


The Merits Of Distraction

by Enjoloras



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Fencing, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sexual Tension, poor Enjolras needs a hobby but uhhhhh, trans Enjolras as always in my stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2019-11-28 07:15:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 24,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18205214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enjoloras/pseuds/Enjoloras
Summary: In which Enjolras finally reaches breaking point, and the rest of Les Amis decide he needs a hobby outside of activism. Enter Grantaire.





	1. Chapter 1

It had been a bad day.

Enjolras never had bad days. Well, he did – everyone did – but he never specifically called them 'bad days'. He strove to see the positive side to everything - it was the only way he managed to keep going. With the world in such a desperate state it was easy to lose hope, to become jaded. Enjolras tried very hard not to let himself fall into that trap; if there was a long line at the cafe he reminded himself that there were people who couldn't afford food, and that he was fortunate to have such a problem. When he was late to class and cursing the Metro he paused to count his blessings that he had the opportunity to attend university at all. When things went wrong – even disastrously wrong – Enjolras raised himself above it all and told himself, forcefully, until it became true, that things were good, and he could make them better for others.

No, Enjolras didn't have bad days.

But yesterday, well – yesterday had been a bad day. There was no other way to say it. There had been nothing positive about it – no bittersweet life lesson to take away from it, no hidden victory going unnoticed. It had been terrible, plain and simple.

He'd started it on three hours of sleep, having stayed up the night before typing furiously at his laptop to finish an overdue assignment. He'd fallen into bed at three AM and woken up at six to the sound of a car alarm outside. He and Combeferre had set off to the Musain at seven, arriving just as it opened - they hadn't even stepped foot inside when a commuter came rushing out with coffee, colliding with Enjolras and spilling it all over him.

A quick text to Courfeyac and fifteen minutes later had found him in the bathroom, struggling awkwardly into a change of clothes that A) didn't fit and B) looked ridiculous on him (Only Courfeyrac had the power to pull off a Hawaiian shirt and pink skinny jeans combo, and Enjolras wasn't Courfeyrac...)

All of this had left the three of them with barely any time to eat before they'd hurried out to convene with the others at Place de la Bastille for the protest.

They'd been preparing for it for weeks, Les Amis collaborating alongside a few other groups to organise it. Good attendance was predicated, and it was broad enough in its purpose (a call for more effective environmental action,) that it would bring people from all walks of life together. It should have been great – it should have been a positive demonstration of unity.

And maybe it would have been, if the weather hadn't reached an unbearable temperature as the sun rose in the sky, and the march hadn't been held up numerous times due to 'clarification issues' regarding all the required notice (that they'd already given, Enjolras got tired of repeating,)

By the time the event had drawn to a close the whole group had been dehydrated, irritable, and sore. That was when it happened. Enjolras never lost his composure – at least, not without very just cause. He could hold his own, and he was more than willing to fight the good fight with his fists if need be - but more than anything he prided himself on remaining calm in the face of crisis. What kind of leader was he otherwise?

But as Les Amis had gathered back at the Musain after the march, sweating and complaining about the weather and the blisters on their feet, Enjolras had finally reached breaking point. Something in him had snapped under the pressure, buckling under the weight of so much responsibility. He'd yelled, he'd cried, he'd kicked a table (and stubbed his toe) and then – to the shock of everyone in the room - he'd slumped down into his chair, a splitting migraine throbbing in his temples, and sobbed.

It had been a very bad day.

Combeferre had taken him home. He’d drugged him up on ibuprofen and diagnosed him with a very serious case of 'needing to take a break', and then ordered him into bed like a stern parent.

So Enjolras had gone.

He'd slept for sixteen hours straight, in fact, waking up past noon the next day. 

Now he was faced with having to join his friends at the cafe for the usual Sunday afternoon meeting.

The Musain was the last place he wanted to be after yesterday's display. He was pretty sure he’d dropped his dignity somewhere between there and his apartment. Les Amis usually followed up protests with notes and discussions about attendance, conversations about what went well and what went wrong. How could they talk about yesterday's march without bringing up the very obvious elephant in the room that was Enjolras' subsequent meltdown? He was dreading it.

Combeferre had apparently chosen to go ahead to the meeting without him, because when Enjolras finally dared to venture out of his bedroom his friend was gone, the half-empty mug of cold coffee sitting on the counter the only evidence that he had been there at all.

-

The whole way to the Musain Enjolras found himself frantically formulating excuses for his behaviour the day before. He was tired, he was anxious about school, he was uncomfortable in Courfeyrac’s obnoxiously skinny skinny jeans. He didn't his friends to worry about him, but perhaps even more than that he didn't want to lose their respect. His attitude after the protest hadn't exactly been the stuff of great leaders. Combeferre and Courfeyrac were every bit as much in charge as he was, and both of them had managed to keep their heads. It made him look bad. 

He was late when he finally reached the Musain, hurrying up the stairs. He hesitated for a moment outside the door, bracing himself to face the group. They were probably going to be angry at him. They were his friends, sure, but that didn’t mean he was exempt from criticism. He'd set a bad example. Maybe they'd even vote him out. After all, what right did he have to complain? He wasn't the only one who'd had a bad time; Bahorel had gotten caught up in a fight - and lost -, Marius now sported an impressive sunburn (which only looked worse when he blushed), and Joly had struggled with his leg all day among a pushy crowd. Enjolras had had no right to be so upset, so irrational, so...

“SURPRISE!”

He blinked once, stunned as the door swung open to reveal his friends staring at him, their faces lit with expectant smiles. It looked like a party – there were streamers hung up and someone had passed out party hats.

It took him a moment to register what he was seeing – and to notice the great big sign Bahorel was holding, the one that said 'Happy Intervention!' in bold red letters.

“I...what is this?” he said, spluttering the words out.

“It's an intervention!” Jehan announced, as though they thought perhaps Enjolras couldn't read. “Well, not a real intervention – no serious intervention should really be held without a mental health professional in the room, that's intervention 101 – but like, a friend intervention.”

“A friendervention, if you will,” Bossuet nodded.

“A...friendervention...?” Enjolras echoed, looking to Combeferre and Courfeyrac for explanation.

“After yesterday we all got a bit concerned about you,” Courfeyrac said. “And...well...” he glanced at Combeferre.

“We’ve all decided you need a hobby.” Combeferre finished.

Enjolras recoiled. “A hobby? Are you serious? I have hobbies!”

“Name one.”

“I---I enjoy activism,” he said, flustered. “I love what we do! We're making a difference!”

“That's great. Name another.”

Enjolras felt his mouth drop open. He searched his mind, starting to panic.

“I...well...give me a moment...”

“If you're struggling to think of another it's because there isn’t one,” Jehan said gently. “Enjolras, we all love you---”

“Speak for yourself,” Eponine remarked.

“---But you need interests outside of activism, or you're going to lose it.”

“Yeah,” Bahorel said. “Yesterday you, uh, kinda reached boiling point there, chief...” he raised his eyebrows. “We got real worried about you.”

“I'm sorry,” Enjolras said quietly. “I didn't mean to---”

“This isn't us scolding you,” Cosette said, her voice as sweet as honey; she pushed her way to the front of the group, taking his hands with her own. “You're allowed to feel emotions. It's healthy. It's normal. But after you left we all got talking, and it occurred to us than none of us have ever seen you take a break and just...have fun.”

“Yeah, you work yourself way too hard,” Joly said. “It's not healthy. You're going to burn yourself out. I'm prescribing you at least a weekly dose of non-revolutionary fun."

“We don't want to embarrass you,” Feuilly put in, “Or make you feel ashamed. And doing this as a big group might not have been the best idea...”

“...But we knew you wouldn't listen to us one-on-one.” Courfeyrac finished.

Enjolras felt his stomach turn over. They were right, of course. If they'd approached him separately and suggested this he'd have waved it away and told them not to worry. But, well, apparently it was distressing enough to bring them all together with a common cause. Fitting, really. He was strangely proud of their organisational skills. 

“Okay,” he said. “I...I guess you could be right. I suppose maybe I do work too much...”

“Holy shit,” a voice piped up from the back; Enjolras followed it to its source, spotting Grantaire sitting at the back of the room in his usual seat. Apparently joining in with the weird festivities hadn't appealed to him.

“I didn't think you'd actually get him to admit it,” he said.

Enjolras felt himself bristle automatically. He turned to Courfeyrac, lifting his chin.

“Alright,” he said. “Find me a hobby. What do you suggest?”

Courfeyrac lit up. “Oh, there's so many options! We all thought we could maybe take turns showing you some of the things we like to do and you can just see if you enjoy any of them!”

“Yeah,” Jehan said, immediately starting to dig through their bag. “In fact I have something for you!”

For a brief moment Enjolras was paralyzed with fear. Knowing Jehan it could have been anything from a taxidermy mouse to a human skull. He breathed a small sigh of relief when they set a tiny potted cactus down on the table.

“Ta-da!” they said, gesturing to it with a flourish. “A gift, and a precursor to one of my hobbies! I thought maybe you'd enjoy plant husbandry."

“Maybe,” Enjolras agreed charitably, not sure if now or later would be a better time to inform them that he had a very bad track record with plants. If there was a thing opposite to a ‘green thumb’, Enjolras had it; he was like the grim reaper for small ferns.

“Thank you,” he said.

"You’d better name it," Jehan warned.

"I will."

“And I'm going to take you boxing on Tuesday night!” Bahorel informed him, puffing up his chest. “We'll make a proper fighter out of you yet! Put some muscles on those spaghetti arms of yours, hey?"

“Uh...thanks?”

“You're welcome.”

“I thought we could go stargazing sometime,” Combeferre suggested, smiling. “We could take my telescope up onto the roof and see some of the constellations. It's fascinating.”

“I'm sure it is.”

Before long he was swamped with suggestions, his diary for the next week swiftly filling up with dates with his friends. It was heartwarming, and it lifted the weight of the world off of Enjolras’ shoulders. They hadn't lost respect for him – far from it. They loved him, deeply and passionately enough to go out of their way to try and take the pressure off him. They  _ loved _ him.

Well, most of them; Grantaire didn't even get up from his seat, instead remaining uncharacteristically silent as he watched the proceedings from the back of the room.

Most of them was good enough, Enjolras thought.

 


	2. Chapter 2

The week had been exhausting - exhausting, and an irrefutable failure. There was no way to deny it, and no point even trying; Enjolras just wasn't cut out for any of the things his friends enjoyed. He sighed, laying his head down on the table. The Musain was quiet for a Saturday, and as usual everyone was running late – they always did, on Saturdays. Most of the group went out on Friday night, and the resulting hangover usually meant that Enjolras and Combeferre were the only ones to arrive on time. Today though, even Combeferre was late, leaving Enjolras alone in the upstairs room to nurse his wounded pride.

It had started on Monday when Feuilly had invited him over to his apartment to help him fill an Etsy order; Feuilly had been carefully crafting intricately painted paper fans for years, and to say he had it down to an art would have been an understatement. His work was stunning – stunning and very, very fiddly, involving detailed paintwork and precise folding, neither of which were things Enjolras considered himself very well suited to.

Needless to say, it hadn't gone very well, ending in Enjolras being banished from his studio completely - barred indefinitely for crimes against crafting. It was fair, and Enjolras had accepted it without insult. Clearly fan making just wasn't his calling.

Then came Tuesday, of course, and boxing with Bahorel. Like a fool Enjolras had been relieved by the prospect - boxing was far less tricky than painting fans, and, Enjolras thought, far less likely to go wrong. Bahorel was an enthusiastic teacher, and a pretty good one to boot. He was less boisterous than Enjolras imagined, and made sure they met all the necessary safety precautions – a pretty ballsy move coming from a man who had once tried to fit three people on the back of a Vespa, Enjolras thought.

At any rate it seemed to be going well – he'd even got a few punches in, and they weren't half bad. But then he'd failed to block a blow from Bahorel – six-foot-three, built-like-a-gladiator Bahorel – and the session had come to a very abrupt end with Enjolras flat on his back and Bahorel splashing cold water on his face to keep him conscious.

Enjolras was forced to concede that boxing, also, was probably not for him.

He was starting to feel like a walking disaster. Nothing seemed to be working out in his favour.

Wednesday's baking lesson with Cosette had ended up with him setting off the sprinkler system, getting her whole apartment building evacuated – an intimidating experience, considering that her father looked like he could have snapped Enjolras in half if he had the inclination to. So baking was off the list, too. 

Thursday Courfeyrac had attempted to teach him how to knit ('I don't just go out to parties, you know?') resulting in probably the worst abomination of a hat known to mankind, and Friday night Combeferre, though wise, had made the very unwise decision to let Enjolras have unrestricted access to his very expensive telescope. Now he was paying him back for a fancy eyepiece that had fallen to an untimely death off the top of the roof. Combeferre was apparently 'just glad no one was underneath it,', though the vein in his forehead had suggested otherwise.

It was embarrassing. His friends, for all their efforts, must have been losing their patience with him by now.

The door clicked open as he was thinking this, and he sat bolt upright in his seat, trying to erase any trace of misery from his face.

“Combeferre,” he sighed. “Where were yo---oh.”

It wasn't Combeferre.

It was Grantaire, standing there a little awkwardly with a backpack slung over one shoulder and a coffee in one hand.

“Uh...hey,” he said, looking around and quickly assessing that they were alone. He didn't look happy about that, Enjolras noted. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I guess you were expecting Combeferre?”

“He's never late,” Enjolras explained, folding his hands awkwardly in his lap. “You're...early.”

“Actually, I'm on time,” Grantaire corrected, pulling out the chair that was the furthest away from Enjolras and dropping his bag onto the floor. “Everyone else is just late. I get it, though – it's still a miracle.”

“I wasn't trying to imply that,” Enjolras said, embarrassed. “I was just surprised to see you, that's all. I know you, uh...usually go out with Joly and Bossuet on a Friday night and--well---”

“Usually have a hangover on Saturday?” Grantaire finished, casting a knowing look his way. “Yeah, I know – what a shock, hey?”

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean---”

“It's fine. My fencing club switched to Friday evenings so I guess that's one more day of the week I have to be sober,” Grantaire said. “They kind of frown upon you stabbing people when you're drunk – just ask Eponine if you don't believe me.”

Enjolras let out a small hum of amusement, not entirely sure whether he was joking or not. Knowing Eponine, probably not.

“Do you enjoy fencing?” he asked, trying to make smalltalk. Being alone with Grantaire was strangely intimidating – he couldn't ever recall a time when they had been alone together before.

“Well, obviously,” Grantaire shrugged, stirring his coffee. “I wouldn't go otherwise, would I?”

“I guess not. Sorry. That was a pointless question...”

“Don't worry about it,”

"What's in the bag?" Enjolras asked, trying to change the subject.

"Oh - just a change of clothes. I've got dance later."

"Dance?"

"Don't sound so surprised."

"I'm not, I just..." Enjolras blushed. "You do a lot of things, don't you?"

Grantaire set his spoon down, looking a little unsure of himself. "I suppose," he said. "I have to keep my mind busy. It...helps with shit."

"That makes sense..." Enjolras swallowed hard. “Grantaire, can I ask you something?”

“Is it another pointless question?”

“I...maybe. Probably. Forget it.”

“No, fuck, sorry – I'm just being an asshole,” Grantaire said quickly. “It's fine - you can ask.”

Enjolras looked down at the table, trying to think how best to word it.

“Why didn't you offer to teach me one of your hobbies?”

Grantaire blinked once, looking like the question had taken him completely by surprise. He opened his mouth and closed it again a few times, as though struggling to form a sentence.

“I...well, I figured you wouldn't be interested in anything I do,” he said eventually. “We don't exactly get along, do we? Why would you want to spend time with me outside of meetings?”

Enjolras felt his heart ache. Did Grantaire really think that was how he felt about him? He wanted to reach across the table to take his hand, but he couldn't – he was sitting too far away and somehow the idea was strange, too new, too close, too...significant. Instead he simply forced a smile to his face.

“That's not true,” he said emphatically. “You're my friend, the same as the others - I'd love to spend more time with you, Grantaire.”

“Really?” Grantaire raised one eyebrow sceptically.

“Really,” Enjolras said. “It would be nice. I know we don't always see eye-to-eye---”

“That's a charitable way of putting it.”

“---But I still value you as a member of our group---”

“A pretty big lapse of judgement on your part.”

“---And I'd like us to see each other outside of meetings more often. And not just with the others, when we do group things.”

Grantaire scrunched up his nose, seeming to shrink in on himself. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.” Enjolras confirmed. “Will you teach me how to fence?”

“You want to learn how to fence?”

“Yes. Please?”

Grantaire leaned back in his seat. He looked as though he was experiencing every human emotion in a matter of seconds. 

“Okay,” he said eventually. “Why not? You can't be any worse than you were at boxing.”

Enjolras felt his face grow hot. “You know about that?”

“I spar with Bahorel every Thursday, Enjolras,” Grantaire said. “Of course I know about it.”

“Great.”

“Relax. You weren't that bad – Bahorel says you held your own pretty good until you took that punch. How did the other things go, anyway?”

“Disastrously,” Enjolras sighed. “I got Cosette's entire apartment building evacuated trying to make chocolate-chip cookies and it's a miracle Feuilly is even still talking to me after what happened in his studio…”

Grantaire scoffed. “Oh come on!” he said. “They're just paper fans - you can't have fucked up that badly...”

“I spilled paint all over a finished order,” Enjolras told him.

“Oh. Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

“Shit, that's...well...I guess it just isn't your thing."

Enjolras grimaced, wishing he could sink through the floor and disappear. “I guess. Is fencing dangerous?”

“Not really, but...well, it's a sport, Enjolras,” Grantaire said. “Sometimes people get injured playing sports. You have to learn how to do it and then you get better at it. Plus the weapons aren't actually sharp - this isn't the 18th century. We're not duelling to the death.”

“Well that's a relief,” Enjolras remarked. “I wouldn't put it past you to stab me, otherwise,” he joked.

“I know you're kidding, but I'd never hurt you, Enjolras,” Grantaire muttered, suddenly very serious. “Not ever.”

Enjolras felt something uncomfortable form in his chest at Grantaire's words – that strange bubbling feeling that stirred in his stomach every time they spoke. He couldn't place it, but he didn't like it. It made him feel a bit like he was going to be sick. He pushed it aside.

“Anyway,” he said, clearing his throat. “Next Friday, then?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire agreed. “Next Friday. I'll text you the details.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras said. “It's a date, then.”

Grantaire choked a little on his coffee.

At that exact moment the door opened and Combeferre finally came rushing into the room, Courfeyrac following close behind him.

“Sorry I'm late,” he said, breathless.

“Where were you?” Enjolras asked, looking from him to Courfeyrac for an answer.

“Ah, well, Courfeyrac and I kind of – ended up going out together last night, after the telescope incident, and, well, it was late,” Combeferre began, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn't want to wake you up coming back to the apartment, so---”

“He crashed at mine,” Courfeyrac said. “That's all. Now, let's get started, shall we? Oh, hey Grantaire. You're early!”

“Actually, I'm perfectly on time,” Grantaire corrected, sipping his coffee.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

By the time that Friday rolled around Enjolras had succeeded in working himself up to an almost embarrassing degree.

He'd spent the entire week worrying about this upcoming fencing lesson with Grantaire, his brain conjuring up all kinds of ridiculous scenarios in which he managed to mess up; tripping and impaling himself on the blade, tripping and accidentally impaling  _ Grantaire _ on the blade, tripping and impaling an innocent bystander - the list was endless, and involved a lot of impalement. 

It wasn't just the fencing itself that was making him anxious, though – no, it was also the increasingly harrowing thought that he'd be spending the best part of an evening alone with Grantaire for the first time ever. With weapons.

It made sense why the two of them had never hung out before. Why would they hang out alone when most of what they did was fight?

Fuck, why were they going to be hanging out alone  _ tonight? _ With  _ weapons? _

Enjolras was starting to think he'd made a very regrettable mistake.

-

He caught the Metro at six-forty and made it to Grantaire's apartment just after seven, hovering awkwardly outside for a few minutes before he worked up enough courage to press the button on the intercom. There was a long pause – so long that Enjolras thought maybe Grantaire was planning to blow him off completely – and then finally a familiar, husky voice came crackling out over the speakers.

“Hey?”

“Hey,” Enjolras said. “It's me. Um – we're fencing, remember?”

“Oh – yeah, I remember.” Grantaire muttered. “I'll be right down, just give me a minute.”

“Sure.”

'A minute' turned out to be five, but eventually Grantaire appeared at the door, hair tousled and dressed for the gym.

“You definitely still want to do this?” he asked, sounding almost as if he hoped Enjolras had changed his mind in the time it had taken him to get downstairs. Enjolras frowned.

“Of course,” he said. “When have you ever known me to back out of something?”

Grantaire snorted.  “Fair enough,” he said. “Come on then – the gym is only five minutes away.”

They walked there in silence, Enjolras feeling the weight of it like an anvil. It was pathetic, really. He'd known Grantaire for years and yet here he was, unable to make even the most casual smalltalk. Part of him was deathly afraid of opening his mouth and ruining everything. There had always been a sort of strange tension between the two of them, a tension that Enjolras was scared to put a name to. Every meeting was the same; Grantaire made a sarcastic comment, Enjolras chastised him for it, and the air between them crackled with electricity. Enjolras knew exactly what it was – what it meant. But to say it out loud, to actually acknowledge it...well, he wasn't ready for that just yet. He didn't know if he ever would be.

When they reached the gym Enjolras quickly learned that Grantaire had been attending his fencing club for a long time - long enough that the instructors were comfortable with him taking Enjolras aside for a private lesson. Enjolras wondered if Grantaire taught new people often, or if he’d made arrangements just for him. The thought made him feel bizarrely giddy.

“Here,” he said, passing Enjolras his weapon. Enjolras blinked at it, dumbstruck.

“I was expecting it to look more...well, like a sword,” he said, feeling suddenly rather embarrassed. It was long and thin, with a strange handle and a blunted end.

“We're fencing, not sword-fighting,” Grantaire reminded him, sounding amused. “Don't let the movies fool you – I told you, it's a sport, not a duel.”

“Sorry.”

“It's fine. More than fine, actually - it's kind of refreshing seeing you struggle with something for once,” Grantaire snickered. “Okay, so – we're using pistol grip, so, um...here,” he leaned closer, awkwardly taking Enjolras' hand to position his fingers on the hilt. He moved them as carefully and tenderly as if he was posing him for a painting. Enjolras felt his stomach flip.

“There. Keep your hand like that.” Grantaire instructed, drawing his hand back.

“Alright,” Enjolras said, face red. “Now what?” he asked.

“Well we're fighting épée – so the whole body is a target.”

“Is that not normal?”

“Well, it depends what you're fighting with, see. So, like, when foil fencing, the only target is the torso – not the arms and legs. But with épée it's kind of a free for all.” Grantaire shrugged, swishing his blade back and forth thoughtfully. “You'll get the hang of it, don't worry.”

“Don't we need a mask? Or some protective gear...?”

“Sure, if we're actually fighting,” Grantaire said. “But right now we're just going to go over footwork and do a few really basic offensive and defensive moves in slow-motion. We don't need to be all padded out for that. I promise I won't kill you showing you how to block.”

“That's mighty decent of you,” Enjolras said drolly.

“Well, you know me,” Grantaire said, holding his blade to his chest like a cross in a poor affectation of holiness. “A paragon of decency.”

“I'm pretty sure Joly and Bossuet have photographic evidence that contradicts that statement,”

“Unfortunately for you, you'll never know,” Grantaire smirked. “Now, we better get your footwork right. You look like you're standing in line at the grocery store.”

-

It was okay – more than okay, actually. It was easier than it looked, and even though Enjolras felt a little stupid standing and moving the way he did it wasn't too bad. Grantaire was a surprisingly patient teacher, and he clearly knew what he was doing.

Enjolras had always imagined Grantaire incapable of taking anything seriously, but here he was, sternly correcting Enjolras' footwork and demonstrating in excruciatingly slow motion how to lunge and parry and disengage. He seemed determined that Enjolras would learn - and learn well.

And Enjolras, for his part, was a willing student. He listened carefully and copied Grantaire’s movements precisely, soon so absorbed in what they were doing that it became very easy to forget the usual awkwardness between the two of them.

“Okay, let's take a break. That was pretty good,” Grantaire said, visibly surprised. Enjolras felt like he should probably be offended, but truthfully he was surprised too. “You're getting the hang of it. That last parry was really nice.”

“So what next?” Enjolras said, puffing up his chest a little at the praise.

“Well, now we can go get suited up,” Grantaire announced. “And fight for real.”

“I---what?” Enjolras was sure all the colour must have left his face. “Fight for real?”

“Yeah. You did pretty good, no reason to wait around,” Grantaire shrugged. “Let's have a friendly match.”

“Really?” Enjolras said. “I...just like that?”

“Don't worry – I'll go easy on you.”

Enjolras bristled. “I don't need you to,” he insisted, despite that he probably, definitely did.

“Well good for me, then,” Grantaire grinned. “That'll be fun.”

-

At the end of the three rounds it was fourteen points to Grantaire and a very admirable three to Enjolras.

Not his proudest achievement, but better than nothing – better than he'd expected, anyway, considering that prior to now he hadn’t known the first thing about fencing. 

Even more unexpected, though, was the rush of adrenaline that was coursing through his body by the end of the match; it felt like an electric current was running through his veins, tingling him from his head to his toes.

When they each pulled off their masks they were panting furiously, faces red and sweaty hair falling into their faces. Enjolras had never really appreciated the way Grantaire looked before, but now, well...there was something about the dishevelled way his curls stuck to his forehead, the way his dark eyes were focused from their fight, the way he was still biting his bottom lip in concentration...

Enjolras felt a shiver run down his spine.

“Well done,” Grantaire said, breaking the silence and snapping Enjolras out of his daydream. “You did pretty good for a beginner!”

“Thank you,” Enjolras said, heart hammering in his chest. “You're....well you're very impressive.”

“Impressive?” Grantaire raised his eyebrows. “Did you just compliment me?”

“I did,” Enjolras said, still breathless.

“Well then thanks,” Grantaire said. “Anyway, maybe we should go get changed? I'm roasting to death in this thing.”

Enjolras was almost inclined to argue – he would have been quite happy watching Grantaire all sweaty and panting with a blade in his hand for a little longer.

“Sure,” he said instead, pulling almost unconsciously at his jacket. He  _ was _ very warm. “Let's go.”

-

Enjolras was still buzzing even after they'd changed out of their protective gear and left the gym, and he was still buzzing as they wandered up the street together. It was almost dark now, and the warm summer air smelled sweet and fragrant. A perfect night, really. Grantaire's apartment was on the way to the Metro station, so it seemed only reasonable that Enjolras would walk back with him and then make his way home from there.

At least, it had seemed only reasonable until they were lingering in the alcove outside Grantaire's apartment building, Enjolras reluctant to tear himself away. 

“You were actually really good for your first time,” Grantaire told him, his voice lacking any trace of its usual irony. His eyes were warm and inviting, dark brown turned to honey by the harsh glow of the streetlamps. He was captivating. Why had Enjolras not noticed before now? Or maybe he had - he felt like he had - and just pushed it aside in a little box to be dealt with at a later date, like he did with most things that weren’t his activism. 

“I had a good teacher,” he complimented, cheeks hot. “I never knew you could be so...graceful."

Grantaire scoffed. “Graceful? Me?” he said. “Did you hit your head?”

“It's true!” Enjolras said, laughing. “You made it look more like a dance than a fight!”

Grantaire waved it off. “If that's what you think you should see me _ actually  _ dance.”

“I'd like to,” Enjolras said earnestly. The statement seemed to catch Grantaire off guard.

“Oh,” he said. “Uh...well, maybe you will sometime. I do dance on a Saturday afternoon at the same gym, you should come along sometime. Maybe.”

“I will.” Enjolras said. "Though I can't dance for the life of me. Two left feet."

"Really? I don't believe that for a second," Grantaire said, looking him up and down in a way that made Enjolras’ heart race. "You look like you'd be a beautiful dancer…”

"Well maybe you could teach me how to do that, too." Enjolras challenged. 

"If you want," Grantaire nodded. "I'd like that - I mean, it could be fun."

"It would be."

“Awesome,” he said, running one hand through his hair; he looked suddenly very nervous, Enjolras thought. “I had a good night tonight, and - well, do you wanna maybe come up to the apartment for a while? We have coffee. Good stuff, too - I know we're poor students but Joly is really particular about his coffee. Our espresso machine cost more than our rent."

Enjolras felt his stomach flutter. “I'd like that.”

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

Coffee - it was an age old excuse Enjolras thought, as he let himself back into his apartment. A cliché, really. He thought that only worked in movies, but apparently life imitated art.

He hadn't meant for it to happen.

Well, he had – it wasn't like it could happen accidentally. It was a string of conscious decisions, one after the other, and he knew he could have put a stop to it whenever he wanted to.

He just....hadn't wanted to.

But still, the point was, this wasn't his fault – he hadn't set out that day with the intention of it. Definitely not. He'd gone out that Friday evening to go fencing, and that was all.

But now it was six o'clock in the morning on Saturday, and Enjolras was still trying to get his head around how exactly it had happened. He was pretty sure there were three steps leading up to it:

First, they'd entered Grantaire's apartment to discover that Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta were still out - date night. That wasn't good. That meant that Enjolras and Grantaire had been well and truly alone, without any mutual friends to form a buffer.

Second, Grantaire had told Enjolras to make himself at home - and he had, sitting himself down on a very, very comfortable sofa. That was a bad idea.

Finally – and this, Enjolras decided, was the most crucial mistake - Grantaire forgot to switch the espresso machine on.

It was only as he'd been helping Grantaire out of his shirt, peppering him with kisses, that Enjolras had realised he'd never really had any intention of coming upstairs for coffee. And, he realised, Grantaire probably hadn't had any intention of it either. They were fooling themselves if they thought otherwise. 

They'd only broken apart for a moment (panting, wild-eyed, burning with desire) - just long enough for Grantaire to ask 'Do you want to...?' and Enjolras to respond with an emphatic 'yes'.

It was surprising how immediately Enjolras had decided he wanted to have sex with him. He’d never had sex with anyone - not that he was going to tell Grantaire that - but instantly he’d been sure about having sex with him. No more discussion required - well, other than a quick question about condoms.

They'd stumbled into Grantaire's bedroom, almost tripping over each other as they went, and then collapsed onto the bed in a tangle of limbs, pulling at each other’s clothes so aggressively that Enjolras was now missing a button on his shirt.

It had been good.  _ Really _ good. Apparently the bedroom was just another area where Grantaire demonstrated an unfair amount of talent.

Enjolras didn't have anything to compare it to, sure, but he didn't think he needed to. He imagined sex was either good or it wasn't, and didn't leave much room for uncertainty. This had been good, anyway - the kind of sex Enjolras thought people exaggerated about, the kind that made you yell and scream, curl your toes and wake the neighbours. Grantaire’s mattress was old, and every thrust was accompanied by a horrible creaking sound, as if the springs were about to give way. It would have been off-putting, maybe, if Enjolras hadn’t been getting fucked senseless. He imagined Grantaire would be receiving a noise complaint for it all.  

When it was over they'd both lay there in stunned silence, coming to terms with what had happened and the horrifying reality that they'd just irrevocably warped their friendship forever. Because there was no other way to look at it, really. Friends didn't have sex. Well, some did – and it worked out just fine for some people – but not Enjolras and Grantaire. That wasn't their thing. It was never supposed to be their thing – there was too much tension between them. At least, there had been. A lot of that had dissipated post-orgasm, Enjolras thought.

They couldn't let anybody find out about this, he knew. There had long been an informal rule within Les Amis that there were to be no casual hook-ups between them. It was the sort of thing that was asking for disaster in a large group of friends. When friends started sleeping together and feelings got mixed up, things got messy. It made sense. Enjolras had never had a problem with the rule before now. 

Grantaire must have been thinking the same thing, Enjolras realised, because as soon as it was over he seemed to detach himself from the situation, barely even looking at Enjolras as though to do so filled him with regret.

It stung a little, to be honest – Enjolras was new to this, and sure, he hadn't expected romance, but some non-sexual intimacy afterwards would have been appreciated. Warm arms holding him close, a kiss on the cheek - anything. It wouldn't have killed Grantaire to just cuddle for a while, surely?

He'd been a courteous host, at least; he'd shared a cigarette with him (Enjolras fiercely insisting that Grantaire never tell anybody that he'd smoked) and then cleaned up after their activities, telling Enjolras he was welcome to stay or go, whatever he preferred. Enjolras had chosen the former, and they'd passed out together on top of the sheets, sweaty and sticky from the summer heat, a faint breeze drifting in from the open window along with the sounds of the city.

The sun wasn't even all the way up when Enjolras had made his exit a few hours later, sneaking away as Grantaire slept on, oblivious.

Frankly it was a miracle he'd escaped the apartment without being caught; halfway to the front door he'd heard Bossuet come padding tiredly out of his bedroom towards the bathroom, yawning loudly. Enjolras had slipped away like a ghost, timing the closing of the front door with Bossuet closing the bathroom door to avoid being detected. It was impressive just how much stealth Enjolras found he could employ when faced with the prospect of humiliation. He fancied he'd make a half-decent cat burglar in another lifetime.

So now here he was, exhausted, head reeling, making his way down the hall towards his bedroom to try and steal a little extra sleep. 

He was just about to pass Combeferre's door when it opened unexpectedly, a bleary-eyed Courfeyrac taking him completely by surprise. He looked dishevelled – still half-asleep, his curls unruly, wearing nothing but boxers and an oversized ‘Nasa’ t-shirt that clearly didn't belong to him.

They locked eyes for a moment, equally stunned to see each other, and then Courfeyrac opened his mouth.

“What are you doing?” he blurted.

“I---what am I doing? This is my apartment!” Enjolras said, shocked. “What are  _ you _ doing?!”

Courfeyrac's face went white.

“I---well---”

“Why were you in Combeferre's room?” Enjolras asked, outraged. He glanced over Courfeyrac's shoulder into the room, where a very embarrassed Combeferre was now fimbling to put on his glasses.

“Ah,” Courfeyrac said, turning scarlet. “See, uh...”

“Wait,” Enjolras said, starting to do the math. “You---were you two---?”

“Don't freak out,” Courfeyrac begged, reaching to grab his hand as if he thought Enjolras might turn and run. “Please don't freak out!”

“I'm not freaking out!” Enjolras said, definitely, totally freaking out. “How long has this been going on?!”

“Just a few weeks. Enjolras---”

“What about the rule?!” Enjolras cried, the irony of his words not lost on him. 

“Okay, one, that rule is ridiculous – we're all adults here,” Courfeyrac said, “And two, we're not breaking any stupid rule. We're---well,”

“We're together,” Combeferre finished, appearing behind Courfeyrac in the doorway.

“Together?” Enjolras echoed, looking between them. “Wait, you mean...?”

“I love him,” Courfeyrac said, squeezing Enjolras' hand. “And he loves me. We've felt this way for a while, we just...well, it took us a while to admit it. We didn't want to ruin our friendship.”

“Oh,” Enjolras said, blinking once. How had he missed that? They were his two best friends in the whole world, and they'd been in love with each other, and he hadn't seen it? Was he really that unobservant?

“That's...that's great,” he said at last, smiling. And it was – it really was.

Even if Enjolras felt like an idiot for failing to notice it.

Courfeyrac's expression split instantly into a look of relief. “Yeah?” he said, beaming slowly. “Thanks. It is – honestly, Enj, I'm so lucky...”

“Why didn't you tell me?” Enjolras said.

“We didn't know how. We didn't want you to feel like a third wheel,” Courfeyrac told him, expression softening. “You really don't mind?”

“Of course I don't mind,” Enjolras said, insulted. “I'm thrilled for you both!”

Courfeyrac's smile grew even wider, almost comical. “Thank you!” he said. “I'm so happy, Enj, really! He's so...” he trailed off, furrowing his brow. “Wait, why are you wearing the same clothes from yesterday?”

Enjolras blanched, scrambling for an excuse. “Uh---well, it was pitch black when Grantaire and I got done fencing,” he shrugged, trying to play it off. It hadn’t been, of course. The sky had still been light when they left the gym. “I didn't fancy catching the Metro back by myself in the dark so I crashed on his sofa.”

“You look half dead,” Combeferre commented, looking him up and down.

“His sofa is  _ really _ uncomfortable,” Enjolras said.

“That's fair, I guess. How did the fencing thing go, anyway?” Courfeyrac asked, apparently falling for it. Ordinarily Enjolras was sure he’d have been subject to much more questioning than that, but clearly Courfeyrac’s mind was somewhere other than the gutter for once, this morning. Love, he guessed. 

“Good,” Enjolras said. “Grantaire said I didn't let my inexperience show.”

He'd said it a few hours later about something else, too.

“That's great! Do you think this could be your thing, then?” Courfeyrac said. “Are you going to be a master fencer?” he joked.

“Maybe,” Enjolras said, chuckling nervously. “We'll see. It depends if Grantaire can stand to be in my presence long enough for me to get that good...”

Or if he ever even talks to me again after last night...

“Don't be ridiculous – Grantaire may act all cold and sarcastic, but he likes you more than he lets on,” Courfeyrac said brightly. “I'm sure he'd be happy to keep teaching you.”

Enjolras almost wanted to laugh; he'd certainly liked  _ something _ about him more than he let on, at least – but then maybe he'd just been lonely. Grantaire was forever lamenting bitterly about his lack of dates. Nailing Enjolras into the mattress was probably as good a way as any to relieve the tension, sort of like how you loosened a valve on a radiator to release pressure.

“Anyway, it seems to have worked,” Courfeyrac commented, breaking into Enjolras' thoughts.

“What do you mean?”

“Well you just seem kind of...chilled out? I mean, you look exhausted - no offence – but like, more relaxed, somehow.”

Enjolras blushed. “Really?”

“Really. You're not carrying yourself so stiffly,” Courfeyrac said, mimicking him walking like a robot. “You look like all the tension has just gone from your shoulders. You clearly did something right.”

“Thanks,” Enjolras laughed awkwardly. “Anyway, why don't you tell me more about how this happened?” he said, quickly changing the subject and steering Courfeyrac down the hall. “I'll take you guys to breakfast to celebrate, if you like. I can't believe it; my two best friends! How romantic.”

“Like you'd know anything about that,” Courfeyrac teased. Enjolras smiled wryly.

Right, he thought, a little sadly.

Like I'd know anything about that.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Somehow, through some miracle, Enjolras managed to keep up the pretence of normality for the rest of the afternoon.

It helped, he thought, that both Combeferre and Courfeyrac were too caught up in their own romance to care whether or not Enjolras was behaving strangely.

Because he was – he was certain that he was, looking back over his shoulder every few minutes as they ate breakfast in the Musain, paranoid that Grantaire might come strolling in at any moment. Enjolras didn't even know what he'd do if he did. Hide, maybe? Dive behind Courfeyrac's chair? Pretend nothing had happened? Just the thought made his heart hammer in his chest. Fortunately Courfeyrac was too loved-up to care - or to notice the hickeys Enjolras had tried desperately to cover with his collar.

“So how did you get together, again?” he asked, trying to keep the conversation centered on the two of them. It was easy enough to do when Courfeyrac was so smitten. He looked like he was just  _ waiting _ for an excuse to talk more about it - Enjolras was only too happy to provide that if it kept them away from the topic of Grantaire.

“Oh, Enj - it was like something from a romantic comedy!” Courfeyrac said, a dreamy expression coming over him. “See, I do this thing where I write letters to people and never send them. It's therapeutic, you know? Anyway, I wrote this big long love confession in my notebook and completely forgot about it. So then a few weeks ago, right, Combeferre can't find his journal for class – so I let him borrow my notebook, like an idiot!”

“ _ Like _ an idiot?” Enjolras teased, earning a playful swat from Courfeyrac.

“Oh, shut up!” he said, grinning. “Anyway, where was I – oh, yeah. The notebook. So about an hour after 'Ferre leaves for class, I have, like, an epiphany about what I wrote in it, and I freak out. Big time.”

“Big time,” Combeferre agreed, sipping his coffee. “I got about twenty texts that were different variations of 'please don't look inside it or I'll die''”

“Little did I know it was already  _ way _ too late for that,” Courfeyrac said. “So 'Ferre gets back later that night, all stoic and serious, and hands it back to me like nothing is wrong. I thank him and I flee the scene, thanking every deity under the sun and thinking he mustn't have seen it...” he blushed brightly, glancing at Combeferre. “Until I go into my room and open the notebook to find that he's written a big long letter to me on the opposite page, confessing his feelings.”

Combeferre shrugged. “I didn't know how to say it out loud. Falling in love with a friend isn't something I ever expected,” he said. “It's not my usual area of expertise.”

“That's sweet,” Enjolras said flatly.

And it was. Sickeningly so, really. Enough to make Enjolras just a touch jealous, though he’d never found himself craving a relationship before.

“Isn't it?” Courfeyrac sighed, reaching to take Combeferre's hand. “I still can't believe it. All these years wasting time – it's silly, really! We should have just talked about it, like adults.”

“We should have,” Combeferre said, lacing their fingers tightly together. “But there's no use mourning lost time now. We can make it up.”

Courfeyrac beamed, looking back at Enjolras again. “So,” he said, refusing to relinquish his hold on Combeferre's hand. “Your fencing lesson. Tell me everything!”

Enjolras blanched. “Everything?”

“I want to know what it was like!” Courfeyrac pressed. “I've never fenced and it looks kind of intimidating.”

“It wasn't too bad,” Enjolras said. “Grantaire is a good teacher.”

Just saying the words made a blush creep up his neck. He could think of a few other things Grantaire was good at teaching. He’d undone Enjolras with barely any effort at all. No man should’ve possessed that much power.

“I bet he is.” Courfeyrac said. “He's been in tournaments and stuff, hasn't he?”

Enjolras blinked, wrenched abruptly out of his dirty thoughts. “He has?” 

“Yeah. Not, like, world championships or anything – but I know he has a trophy from some regional tournament in the Auvergne,” Courfeyrac said, tilting his head curiously. “Didn't he tell you?”

“No,” Enjolras said, feeling suddenly quite hurt, “He didn't.”

“Huh. Weird. I mean, I know he stopped doing it competitively he got bad, but I thought he’d have mentioned it…”

“Got bad?”

“Yeah, you know…?”

“No, I don’t know.”

Courfeyrac exchanged a quick look with Combeferre, who shook his head. “Well anyway, you're in good hands,” he said. “And it looks like you had a good time. I bet it was fun. Cathartic, too, the two of you going at each other like that after all your years of fighting!”

Enjolras nearly inhaled his coffee. He set his mug down, thumping himself firmly on the chest to help it pass.

“Yes,” he said, when he finally caught his breath again. “Very cathartic.”

-

Enjolras managed pretty well, he thought.

Well, he managed well right up until the usual Saturday meeting was due to start, when the terrifying realisation that he would have to face Grantaire began to sink in. Grantaire never missed a Saturday meeting. Sure, sometimes he was late, nursing a hangover from the night before, but he always showed up eventually, usually with some witty remark at hand.

Besides, he hadn't been out drinking last night. Definitely not. Enjolras knew  _ exactly _ what Grantaire had spent his Friday night doing - him. 

Still, nobody but Enjolras knew this – and nobody seemed to suspect a thing out of the ordinary, surprising considering Enjolras’ face must have been the colour of a cooked lobster. 

When Grantaire finally slunk in mid-meeting and took his usual place at the back of the room Enjolras lost his train of thought entirely. His hair was a mess and he looked tired, rough around the edges in an undeniably sexy sort of way that Enjolras had never appreciated before now. Was this what it was going to be like from now on, he wondered? Constantly noticing things about Grantaire that he'd previously paid no attention to?

Even as he thought this Enjolras found his mind drifting back to the night before, to the hungry look in his eyes, the strength in his arms, the strangely pleasant scratch of his stubble against bare skin, the feel of him inside----

“Enjolras?”

He startled slightly, turning to see Feuilly staring at him, brows knit together in concern.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“I---yes, of course,” Enjolras said, clearing his throat. “Sorry. You were going over the minutes from the last meeting?”

“I was,” Feuilly nodded, eyeing him worriedly. “I got finished with that a few minutes ago. We're waiting on you to get started.”

“Oh. Right, yes, sorry,” Enjolras shook his head as though to dispel any lingering thoughts of Grantaire. It was useless - last night was seared into his brain. “I'm just a bit spaced out today,” he said.

“His fencing lesson went well,” Courfeyrac chipped in helpfully. “He's been like this all morning – head in the clouds!” he said. “I told you it would be good for you to have something to take your mind off work, Enj!”

Enjolras swallowed hard, forcing a smile to his face; he felt Grantaire's gaze hone in on him, intense, focused.

“Yes it was...very relaxing,” he said, straightening up the papers in his hands. “Now – we should move on.”

-

The meeting continued as normal, Enjolras only trailing off and staring at Grantaire a few times. It wasn't until they began to wrap up that he finally dared speak to him, struggling to keep his expression as neutral as possible.

He didn't want people getting the wrong idea - whatever that was.

“Grantaire – can I talk to you for a moment?” he asked, trying to phrase it as casually as possible. He saw Grantaire wince.

“Sure,” he said, voice low as he sunk back into his chair, pouting like a child waiting to be told off by his teacher. He looked as if he wanted nothing more than to disappear into a puff of smoke. It would certainly have made life easier for both of them if he did. 

“Shit, you're in trouble now, R!” Bahorel laughed, thumping Grantaire roughly on the back as he passed him. “Good luck, hey?”

“We'll see you later,” Joly called on his way out. “Cafe Voltaire at nine, remember?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire mumbled. “I remember.”

Enjolras waited until the rest of their friends had trickled out of the Musain before he began, making his way over to Grantaire's table as if he was stepping onto a battlefield.

“So,” he said, stopping a few feet in front of him. He didn’t dare venture any closer in case he was seized by the urge to tear his clothes off and ride him right there in the Musain. “We should probably talk about some things.”

“What kind of things?” Grantaire said. Nonchalantly. As if he didn't know.

“Well, you know,” Enjolras started. “About last night...”

“Fuck, do we have to talk about that?” Grantaire said, cutting right across him. Enjolras blinked, surprised.

“I...well, no. Not if you don't want to...”

“I don't.”

“Okay then,” Enjolras looked away, feeling sick to his stomach. “I thought you enjoyed it...”

“Of course I enjoyed it,” Grantaire said, scowling. “Holy shit, Enjolras, I definitely enjoyed it. Is that what you're worried about?”

“Well you're acting like it was terrible!”

“It  _ was _ terrible! It was great, but – terrible. We shouldn't have done it.” Grantaire said, looking as though the conversation caused him physical pain. Enjolras didn't disagree there. They shouldn't have done it – shouldn't have even  _ thought _ about doing it. But they had. And they couldn’t take it back. Enjolras wasn’t sure he would even if he could.

“You're right,” Enjolras said. He saw something flash briefly behind Grantaire's eyes, gone too quickly for him to read.

“For once,” Grantaire muttered. 

Enjolras looked down, unsure what he was supposed to say. “Can I still come with you this afternoon?” he asked. 

“What?” Grantaire’s honey-dark eyes clouded with confusion.

“Dancing,” Enjolras prompted, folding his arms across his chest. “You invited me along last night, before...well. Can I still come?”

Grantaire blinked once, looking a little as though Enjolras had just struck him across the head with a blunt object. “You...still want to do that?” he said.

“Yes,” Enjolras clarified. “Definitely. It sounds fun.”

Truth be told Enjolras was only going in the hopes it might restore some normalcy to their relationship. Enjolras hated dancing, really. He’d probably step on Grantaire’s toes enough times that they’d start bickering, and the passionate night they had shared together would be completely forgotten.

Grantaire swallowed loudly, running one hand though his hair. It was unfair how attractive the movement was, the way it tousled his curls and made them fall into his face. Enjolras felt his heart clench.

“I...fine,” Grantaire said eventually. “I guess that would be okay.”

“You guess?”

“Yeah - I mean, sure. It's fine.”

He certainly didn't sound like it was fine, but Enjolras wasn't about to press the issue. “Great,” he said instead, scrambling to collect his things before Grantaire could change his mind. “I'll see you later, then.”

“Yeah, you too.”

Dancing – that was all. It would be fine – more than fine, it would be a chance to sink back into their usual dynamic. That was it. Completely innocent, Enjolras vowed.

He was putting his foot down about this whole mess right now.

Never again.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We finally get one from Grantaire's POV! And a bit of smut.
> 
> Also, disregard the comment I made in chapter one about Enjolras' binder (I've deleted it) - it's warm and there's sexytimes involved so the lucky guy gets to have had top surgery in this fic to save me writing about ~uncomfortable things~

“Oh, god. Please don't stop---”

“I don't plan to---”

“Please---I---- _ oh _ \---!”

Enjolras threw one hand out to catch the headboard for support, arching his back against the mattress as he bit back a cry. Grantaire watched him closely as he did, committing the sight to memory, aching with the knowledge that as soon as it was over they'd roll apart and pretend this had never happened – again.

A moment, only a moment, before they'd go back to regret and awkward glances across the Musain. Grantaire would have made that moment last forever if he could, but, well, he was only human, after all. He didn't have that kind of stamina. Enjolras writhing underneath him, tightening around him - he could feel his own end drawing near.

He closed his eyes, burying his face against Enjolras’ neck and muffling a moan into the pillow as his orgasm shuddered through him; he felt Enjolras wrap his arms around him, holding him in place, and it was almost agonising how tender the gesture was – like something real lovers did. Grantaire couldn't speak, couldn't function, couldn't think – couldn't do anything but feel.

A moment more, he thought desperately, as deep inside Enjolras as physics would allow. Just a moment more, before everything between them went back to normal.

He followed with a few slow, lazy thrusts, and then, just as predicted, Enjolras pushed him away and Grantaire collapsed with a heavy sigh at his side, flinging the used condom into the bin by the bed.

Dancing, he thought bitterly, fighting to regain his breath. Yeah, that had worked out great. Fucking  _ dancing _ .

He glanced at Enjolras, sprawled out next to him with a look of utter bliss, and wished he could regret it. He wished really, really hard that he could regret it.

How had they found themselves in this situation? It seemed impossible. Enjolras couldn't possibly harbour any actual interest in him – he was so far out of Grantaire's league it was unreal.

If Grantaire had been smarter he would send Enjolras away right now and tell him not to come back. If Grantaire had been smarter he would never have let this happen in the first place. But, hey, lots would be different if Grantaire had been smarter. Or at least, if he had less of an inclination to self-destruct.

Because he couldn't turn Enjolras out if he tried – he didn't think it was possible. If he opened his mouth to say the words they'd turn into ash on his tongue. This was Enjolras. Enjolras, in his bed. Enjolras, letting him touch him and kiss him and make love to him as if they were anything more than tentative friends.

It was a nightmare thinly disguised as a dream come true, and Grantaire was powerless to do anything but enjoy it while it lasted.

“You want a smoke?” he offered after a while, desperate to break the silence that had settled over them both.

Enjolras nodded, closing his eyes and stretching out like a cat.

“That was good,” he said, fanning himself with one hand. “It was - you were - it was  _ good _ .”

“With a face like mine you have to be good in bed if you ever want to get a date. It's the only thing I have going for me,” Grantaire remarked, digging through his nightstand for tobacco and papers.

Enjolras let out a little sound of disagreement, rolling onto his side. “You're attractive,” he said, in what Grantaire imagined was the kind of way someone totally unattracted to you said to make you feel better. “And talented, and funny. You could get a date.”

_ But not from you, hey? _ Grantaire thought miserably. He shrugged.

“Maybe,” he said, starting to roll a cigarette. “Yet to find anyone who agrees.”

Enjolras scowled, watching him curiously. “Of course you roll your own cigarettes,” he said, changing the subject. “I know you switched from an art degree but you really are _ such _ an art student cliché sometimes...”

“It's cheaper,” Grantaire argued, passing him the cigarette when he was done. “If you want hipster, you should see Jehan. I watched them roll a joint with a page from the bible once, the fucking edge-lord.”

That elicited a small laugh from Enjolras, and the sound reverberated in Grantaire's chest like a melody.

“Wow,” he said, taking the lighter when Grantaire offered it to him. “Okay, I take it back. I guess you're not that bad at least.”

“Surprisingly,” Grantaire said.

“It's warm in here,” Enjolras commented, taking a drag.

“I'll open the window,” Grantaire decided, getting up from the bed to do so; he could feel Enjolras' eyes on him as he made his way across the room, suddenly acutely aware that he was still butt-naked. The idea that Enjolras might have been checking him out was absolutely absurd, even considering what had just passed between them. A quick fuck was one thing –  _ ogling _ was another entirely.

The moment he lifted up the window a summer breeze came rushing into the room, hitting his face and rifling through his curls. He closed his eyes, breathing a sigh of relief as the cool air made the sweat dry on his skin and the hairs rise on the back of his neck. The room had felt too close, too stuffy, smelling too much like Enjolras and sex - a potent, heady combination. 

“That's better,” Enjolras sighed. Grantaire turned to look at him, admiring the way he was lounging across the bed like something from a Renaissance painting. He was quite a sight - golden hair fanned out across the pillows and hickeys blooming like roses along his collarbone. And wrecked, too – completely wrecked from their tryst. Grantaire was worried he'd get hard again just from looking at him.  _ Don't suggest round two, don't suggest round two... _

“D'you wanna go again?” he said, the words tumbling out of his mouth without restraint. Enjolras' cheeks darkened a little, his eyebrows raising. He opened his mouth to answer---and then a knock on the door startled them both. 

“Hey, R!” Joly called. “Are you ready?”

“Ready?” Grantaire said, caught like a rabbit in the headlights of an oncoming truck.

“For Cafe Voltaire?”

Grantaire felt his heart leap up into this throat. Fuck.  _ Fuck.  _ He'd completely forgotten about that. He turned to Enjolras, gesturing frantically for him to get up.

“Under the bed!” he hissed, taking the cigarette from him. “Quickly, I don't have a lock on my door---”

“Wha---”

“Go!”

Enjolras shot him a deadly look and then did as he said, alighting the bed and crawling underneath it. Grantaire kicked the pile of his clothes under after him, ducking under the covers just as Joly opened the door. Bossuet was standing behind him, staring at his phone.

“R, I---” Joly stopped mid-sentence, eyes wide. “Uh...you okay?”

“Sure,” Grantaire said, taking a nervous pull off the cigarette. “What makes you think I'm not?”

“Nothing, just...are you naked?”

“Can't a guy be naked in his own bedroom on a warm summer night?” Grantaire said. “Come on, Joly, what are you, a nun?”

“Sorry,” Joly frowned. “It's just a bit weird.”

“I'm having a self-care day,” Grantaire told him, flicking ash into the ashtray on his nightstand.

“Uh-huh...well, are you coming with us to Cafe Voltaire or not? Our table is booked for nine, and then we were going to hit that club just off the Champs-Élysées - you know, the one Bahorel got barred from?”

“That was bullshit,” Bossuet muttered, still busy with his phone - probably booking a taxi. “That table was  _ asking _ to be danced on.”

Grantaire coughed slightly from his cigarette. “Well, uh – you know, I think I'm good, actually," he said. "I'm going to stay in tonight.”

“Really?” That got Bossuet to look up, perplexed. “R, it's a Saturday night!”

“And?”

“And we always go out on Saturday nights,” Joly finished.

“Well not tonight. I'm just not feeling it.” Grantaire said. “Nothing wrong with that, is there?”

“Well no, but...are you sure you're okay?”

“Okay?”

“Yeah,” Joly’s expression grew serious. “You're not having one of your, uh, episodes, are you...?”

Grantaire shook his head urgently. “No,” he said, definitely sure he didn't want Enjolras to hear all about his depression. Most of his friends knew about it, sure – but not Enjolras. No, not Enjolras. He kept that particular screwed-up part of himself under wraps around Enjolras.

“No, I'm good.”

“Really?”

“Really!”

Joly didn't look convinced. He made his way over to Grantaire, sitting himself down on the edge of the bed - right where he'd last seen Enjolras before he'd disappeared underneath it. Grantaire swallowed hard.

“You can talk to us,” Joly said gently. “You know that, right? We're always here for you.”

“I know – honestly, Joly, I know,” Grantaire said. “But I'm okay, really. Go on – go get your table before they give it to someone else. Please.”

“You're one-hundred-percent sure?”

“Yes!”

“Really?”

“Yes!” Grantaire cried. “Please, Joly – I just need a little me-time right now.”

“Okay,” Joly said, furrowing his brow. “Call us or text us if you need anything, alright? We're only a few Metro stops away.”

“I'll keep than in mind,” Grantaire said, waving him towards the door. “Now, don't let me stop you. Go have fun!”

“We'll pour one out for you, R” Bossuet joked. “Goodnight!”

“Goodnight,” Grantaire called as Joly closed the door behind them. “Stay safe!”

There was a long beat of silence in their wake. Grantaire held his breath until he heard them leave, collapsing back onto his pillow with a sigh as the front door closed. “Holy fuck!”

“ _ That _ was humiliating,” Enjolras said, his voice drifting up from the floor as he awkwardly crawled out from beneath the bed. His hair was even more of a mess than when he'd gone under there.

“Not as humiliating as it would have been if they'd seen you,” Grantaire reminded him.

Enjolras huffed, climbing back into bed beside him and snatching the nearly spent cigarette out of his hand.

“I suppose,” he agreed grudgingly. “What did Joly mean about your 'episodes'?”

Grantaire felt the bile rise in his throat. He stared up at the ceiling, wishing he could disappear. “I get low sometimes, that's all,” he said. “It's not a big deal.”

Enjolras didn't look like he shared his opinion, but mercifully kept his mouth shut, apparently understanding that Grantaire didn't want to discuss it.

“Okay,” he said, stubbing the cigarette out in the ashtray. “Thanks for the cigarette.”

“You're welcome. I won't tell anyone you smoke after sex, don't worry,” Grantaire said playfully.

“I hate smoking,” Enjolras lamented. “I don't normally do it. It's a dirty habit and it funds evil tobacco corporations, which in turn feed off the misery of the working-class, profiting off their higher risk for addiction--”

“I've heard the spiel, Enjolras,” Grantaire said, drawing a half-hearted cross over his chest with one finger. “I swear I won't tell anyone.”

“Thanks,” Enjolras said. “And you really are a good dancer.”

Grantaire snorted. Dance. Of course – back to where this mess had started earlier that afternoon. 

The dance lesson  _ had _ gone well, in all fairness. Grantaire prided himself on being a pretty good teacher, and there had been something delightfully intimate about showing Enjolras how to waltz. Too intimate, really, because it had ended with them walking back to his apartment together and him inviting Enjolras up for 'coffee' for the second time. He could still feel where Enjolras had raked his nails down his back. Sure was some strong coffee.

“Well, you picked it up pretty quickly,” he said, glancing at him. “That helps.”

“Is waltzing all you do?”

“No,” Grantaire scoffed, “I can tango, too – don't laugh, my mother is Spanish, it was pretty much forced on me – and I actually did ballet as a kid, would you believe?”

“Ballet?” Enjolras grinned. “Wow. I suddenly have a very interesting mental image in my head - the tight leotard and everything...”

“Yeah, well, I was good at it,” Grantaire said, amused. “I took lessons until I was like sixteen - and then my dad found out and hit the roof that my mother was going to 'make me gay'. Jokes on him – I was bisexual before I ever stepped foot in that ballet studio,” he raised one eyebrow. “Anyway, uh...where were we, before Joly came barging in...?”

“Oh,” Enjolras' cheeks turned a beautiful shade of crimson. “Oh, you asked---um. Well, yes. I'd like that.”

“You would?”

“Definitely.”

Grantaire let out a breathless sigh, cupping Enjolras' cheek with one hand as he leaned forwards to kiss him. “Great,” he said, before he closed the gap between them.

He was an idiot. A massive, raging idiot, apparently determined to make his life even more unbearable. But still. Enjolras was here. And Enjolras wanted to have sex. And, well... _ c'est la vie. _

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras makes a valiant attempt to face the problem head on and...uh...

Enjolras was exhausted – more than exhausted, in fact. Exhausted didn't even begin to cover it.

Against his better judgement (wherever that had disappeared to,) he'd stayed the whole night at Grantaire's. They’d passed the evening tangled up between the sheets, going again and again until they were too tired and sore to go any more. By the time they’d heard Joly and Bossuet stumble back into the apartment and decided to go to sleep Enjolras had developed such a pleasant ache between his legs that he was sure he’d be feeling it for days.

Six hours later Enjolras woke up to the smell of fresh coffee being wafted under his nose, learning that Grantaire had apparently crept out to the kitchen to make breakfast for them both whilst Joly and Bossuet were sleeping off their hangovers.

It was a considerate gesture, Enjolras thought, but also achingly sweet – the sort of thing someone did for their boyfriend, not their fuckbuddy. If that's what they were, anyway. It was all still up in the air. Even the word made Enjolras uncomfortable; it was the sort of term Courfeyrac might use, but not Enjolras.

Still, the fact of the matter was this was the second night in a row that they'd had seemingly no-strings-attached sex, without any indication that it was supposed to be anything more than that. That certainly sounded a lot like a 'friends with benefits' type arrangement - not that Enjolras had any experience with these things.

Still, Enjolras was grateful for the coffee; their espresso machine really  _ was  _ as good as Grantaire had claimed.

They'd eaten mostly in silence, occasionally talking about mundane things like the weather or university, and then Enjolras had passed another very pleasant forty minutes with Grantaire's head between his thighs, muffling himself with a pillow so as not to wake Joly and Bossuet in the next room. It was a good way to follow breakfast, Enjolras thought, even when Grantaire had made a very crude remark about ‘brunch’. Hell, it was a  _ very _ good way to follow breakfast, except for the fact that when it was over Enjolras had started to worry his legs wouldn't be able to carry him back to his own apartment.

Despite that he'd somehow managed to get himself dressed and to the Metro station before ten, and now he was homeward bound, half asleep on his feet and swaying whenever the train car jolted. There was room to sit, but Enjolras imagined it would be too uncomfortable to do so, given the rigorous events of the night. 

As he stood there, feeling the disapproving eyes of other passengers boring into him, he was very aware that he looked exactly like you'd expect someone who had spent the whole night having sex to look; his hair was a mess, refusing to cooperate no matter how hard he tried to wrangle it back into a hair-tie, and a whole bouquet of very telling red marks were creeping up his neck, blatantly visible above the collar of his shirt. No wonder the pinched-looking middle-aged woman stood across from him was scrunching her nose up at him. 

He had no idea how he was going to get home without Combeferre seeing him. If he did, well – it would be immediately obvious what he'd been doing all night. He didn’t think there was a single excuse in the world that could cover how he looked right now. 

-

He nearly missed his stop when it came along, alighting the train just before the doors closed again, and when he reached the apartment he found it completely silent. Combeferre was probably still asleep – he was usually an early riser, but it wasn't unheard of for him to sleep in when he'd been up all night working. Enjolras kicked off his shoes at the door, collapsing onto his bed with a heavy sigh when he reached his room and wondering just when and how his love life had become so unnecessarily complicated. Maybe this was why he and Grantaire had never hung out alone before - maybe some subconscious part of them both knew that this was the kind of horrible mess they'd end up in if they did. The tension between them was undeniable, but still, he’d denied it – denied it at every turn, denied it until his throat was hoarse. He'd denied it during meetings and he'd denied it to Courfeyrac again and again. He'd denied it, denied it, denied it – until he couldn't any more. And now they were...well, whatever they were. Whatever it was – whatever that strange feeling in his chest meant – he had to face it like a grown up. Maybe. Probably.

“Enjolras?”

Enjolras froze at the sound of Combeferre's voice, heart stopping.

“Enjolras, are you awake?”

Enjolras cursed under his breath, immediately pulling the covers over himself and hoping he'd pass for having just woken up.

“Come in!” he called, cocooning himself in his duvet to hide the hickeys on his neck.

Combeferre opened the door and peered into the room, frowning when he saw him in bed. “Sorry,” he said. “Did I wake you?”

“I've been half-awake for a little while,” Enjolras said. It wasn't exactly a lie. He yawned loudly as though to emphasise the point. “It's fine. What's up?”

“I was just letting you know I was back.” Combeferre said.

“Back?”

“Yeah. I stayed the night at Courfeyrac's...” Combeferre scowled. “I sent you a text...”

“Oh,” Enjolras felt heat rush to his cheeks. He hadn't checked his phone in hours. He'd heard the battery die when Grantaire had been on top of him and hadn't bothered with it since, a little preoccupied with other matters. 

“Yes, of course,” he said, shaking his head. “Sorry. Still sleepy.”

“Didn't you wonder where I was all night?” Combeferre said, raising one eyebrow.

“Not really.” Enjolras admitted. Frankly he was just relieved that Combeferre hadn't been wondering the same about him.

“Well that's comforting to hear,” Combeferre said, rolling his eyes. “I could have been kidnapped for all you know!”

“Kidnapped?” Enjolras said. “Come on, Courfeyrac can be a bit eager but he isn't that bad.”

“Haha,” Combeferre smirked. “You don't know – anything could have happened. I could have finally been headhunted by NASA and taken hostage,” he joked.

“I don't doubt that they'd want you. If they call I'll give them your number.”

“Thanks,” Combeferre said, furrowing his brow. “Are you sure you're okay? You look exhausted...”

Enjolras swallowed hard. “I didn't sleep well,” he said. “That's all.”

“Well there's no meeting today,” Combeferre informed him. “Everyone is too hungover.”

“Thank god,” Enjolras blurted, without thinking. Combeferre recoiled in surprise.

“I thought you'd be upset?” he said.

“I am!” Enjolras said, quickly trying to recover the situation. “I just – I'm tired. It's probably best not to force it, especially if everyone else is tired too.”

_ And it means I don't have to face Grantaire... _

“Uh...okay,” Combeferre said, still looking mystified. “Wow. Courfeyrac was right.”

“About what?”

“Having hobbies is really starting to mellow you out. A few weeks ago you'd have rather died than miss a meeting.”

“Well, you know,” Enjolras laughed nervously. “I suppose you guys were right – it was burning me out. I guess I needed the break more than I realised.”

“Huh. That's good, then,” Combeferre decided, moving to close the door. “Oh, wait - that reminds me,” he added, “We're all doing movie night and pizza at Joly and Bossuet's, later.”

“We are?” Enjolras said, voice jumping up at least three octaves.  _ No. _

No, no,  _ no _ – that was the last thing he needed.

“Yeah – like, six, I think?” Combeferre said. “Check the group chat - Courfeyrac is arranging it with them.”

Enjolras felt like he was going to be sick. Being back in Grantaire's apartment with him and all their friends? The thought was harrowing.

“Okay,” he said, like an idiot. “That sounds good.”

_ That sounds good? _ He wanted to slap himself. Wanted to feign illness, fake his own death, leave the country, assume a false identity...

“I'll be there,” he said instead.

“Alright. Anyway, I'm going to go get started on my research paper – try to get some more sleep, Enjolras,” Combeferre advised, shooting him a stern look. “You look like the walking dead.”

“Thanks.”

-

Going back to Grantaire's apartment later that evening with Combeferre and Courfeyrac felt like doing a reverse walk of shame. It was ridiculous, really – the apartment itself shouldn't have been a problem. He'd been there dozens of times before for movie nights. It was a favourite hangout spot, one of the few apartments between the group that was big enough to cram everyone into it. 

But that had been before he'd started sleeping with Grantaire. Now that apartment stirred up all kinds of weird feelings.

The rest of the group were already there when they arrived, shouting their pizza orders over each other and arguing about what movie to watch first. Marius and Cosette were practically in each other's laps, disgustingly affectionate as ever, and Jehan was rolling a cigarette on the coffee table. At least, it looked like a cigarette. It probably wasn’t. It was a completely normal evening – aside from the fact that Enjolras had been there earlier that morning, in Grantaire's bedroom, and nobody knew it.

“And the triumvirate finally arrives!” Bahorel cried, waving them over. “You're late! You better get your pizza orders in quickly.”

“We'll just share a large vegetarian,” Courfeyrac said, hugging Combeferre's arm. “Ferre is converting me!”

“I really want to make a gay joke right now but you're already too gay for it to have any sticking power,” Eponine commented dryly, snatching the suspicious cigarette from Jehan the moment they finished rolling it.

Feuilly - who had apparently been designated the official pizza-orderer for the night - looked up at them from his laptop. "What do you want, Enjolras?" he asked. Oh what a loaded question. A therapist, maybe?

“Just a margherita,” Enjolras murmured, eyes searching for Grantaire among their friends. “With olives.”

“Olives?” Joly grimaced. From the expression on his face anyone would have thought Enjolras had said ‘the still beating hearts of innocent puppies’. “Who the fuck actually eats olives on pizza? Enjolras, we love you, but I can feel another intervention coming on soon.”

“What are we having an intervention for?”

Enjolras jumped slightly, turning to see Grantaire slinking into the room from the hall. He was wearing a button-down shirt with a high collar, and smelled like he'd put on cologne. It was an unusual sight - and very, very distracting. 

“Enjolras has olives on his pizza like a heathen,” Bossuet said, pouring drinks for everyone. “Tell him he's in dire need of counselling, R.”

“You're in dire need of counselling,” Grantaire deadpanned, glancing at Enjolras. The look they exchanged could have probably burned entire worlds into ashes. 

“Christ, R! What are you dressed up for?” Eponine said, wrinkling her nose. “I can smell you from here! You're like a teenage boy who just discovered aftershave.”

“He's been having self-care days,” Joly told her, sipping his drink. “Right, R?”

“Right,” Grantaire said. “What are we watching?”

“We're still trying to decide between Pacific Rim and Moana.” Cosette reported.

“An impossible choice, really,” Jehan said solemnly, stealing their cigarette back from Eponine.

“I vote Moana,” Marius piped up, raising his hand.

“Of course you do,” Eponine said. 

Enjolras smiled awkwardly, moving closer to Grantaire as the rest of their friends began to descend into a heated debate. “Can I speak to you privately?” he asked, so quietly he thought Grantaire might not hear him. For a moment it seemed like he hadn't, his expression barely changing.

“Sure,” he said eventually. “Meet me in the bathroom in a minute.”

Enjolras nodded, watching as Grantaire made a point of excusing himself before slipping discreetly down the hall after him.

-

“What's up?” Grantaire asked once they were inside the bathroom, the door locked behind them. He sounded so calm and casual that for a moment Enjolras felt as though he must have imagined the last two days entirely.

“I---we need to talk about this.” he said bluntly.

“About what?”

“You know what!” Enjolras hissed. “Stop avoiding it!”

Grantaire looked away, digging his hands into his pockets. “There's nothing to talk about, Enjolras,” he said quietly. “It's just sex.”

Enjolras felt something strange tug at his insides.  _ Just sex? _

“I – you're right,” he said, pushing the feeling aside. “But we...we can't keep doing this. There's that rule, that no one---”

“I know,” Grantaire said. “But when have you ever given a shit about rules?”

Enjolras closed his mouth. He had a point.

“Be honest, Enjolras,” Grantaire continued. “Is that bullshit 'rule' the only thing stopping us hooking up again?”

_ Yes _ , Enjolras thought, though he hated himself for it. He didn't say it out loud – he didn't need to. A look passed between them, dark and meaningful, and then Grantaire stepped a little closer and Enjolras felt his breath hitch in his throat.

“If anyone finds out....” he started.

“How would they find out?” Grantaire said. “We can be discreet.”

Enjolras almost wanted to laugh at that – when had discretion ever been their strong point? They couldn't even argue without everyone within a ten mile radius knowing about it. But, he told himself, this could be different – they hadn't been caught so far. Maybe they could pull it off - whatever it was.

“Okay,” he said. “Unrelated, but why  _ are _ you dressed up?”

Grantaire smirked slightly, unbuttoning the top of his collar to reveal –  _ oh. _ Not unrelated at all, it appeared. Enjolras hadn't realised he'd been quite that aggressive. He could barely even remember leaving the marks on Grantaire’s neck. The shirt was nice; Enjolras wished he'd thought of that, rather than just donning an uncomfortable jacket over the top of his t-shirt. He was practically melting in it. 

“Ah,” he said, feeling his face grow hot. “Sorry about that.”

“It's fine,” Grantaire assured him, reaching out tentatively to touch Enjolras' face. “I liked it.”

Enjolras inhaled sharply at his touch, the smell of his cologne clouding his senses. The look in his eyes was intense and hungry, like a wolf sizing up its prey. No, that wasn't quite right - prey implied Enjolras wasn't just as into it as he was. Prey implied some kind of pursuit, when there was nothing of the kind. Enjolras was every bit as much a wolf as he was. It seemed that at some point between last night and this evening Grantaire had come to the conclusion that he wasn’t going to fight it anymore. Enjolras found himself agreeing. They’d gone so far already that it seemed almost pointless trying to back out of it now. 

“We can't do this,” Enjolras said, undermining his own words by bringing up his hands to run them desperately through Grantaire's curls. “Not now.”

“We can't,” Grantaire agreed, peppering his jaw with kisses when Enjolras tilted his head to signal that he could do so. “All our friends are in the living room...”

“It's a bad idea,” Enjolras said, gasping when he felt Grantaire's hand brush the bare skin of his waist beneath his shirt. The contact felt like getting a jolt from a car battery.

“A really bad idea,” Grantaire’s breath tickled against Enjolras' throat.

“The walls are thin,” Enjolras added feebly, closing his eyes. To say he was fighting a losing battle would be an outright lie - he wasn't fighting at all. He didn't want to. 

“Pretty thin,” Grantaire nodded. His voice was husky in that way that made Enjolras' knees feel weak. He was powerless against it – embarrassingly so, really. Just Grantaire’s presence was intoxicating.

_ Fuck it,  _ Enjolras decided in an instant, pulling Grantaire flush against him; he could feel how hard he was even through his jeans, and it fanned the flame of arousal between his legs into an inferno. Never before had Enjolras understood why people said they ‘needed’ sex. He’d always thought it was ridiculous. But right now, well - quite frankly he needed Grantaire to fuck him until he couldn’t remember his own name. “I can keep quiet if you can,” he said. 

He felt Grantaire smile against his lips in response, hoisting him up onto the bathroom sink. “We'll be quick,” he said, starting to undo the front of his jeans. “They won't even notice we're gone...”

-

They  _ were _ quick about it. Perhaps not as quick as they should have been, no, but no one had come knocking on the door, and he’d been quiet, only whimpering a little when Grantaire brought him over the edge. Enjolras imagined they were in the clear. 

He splashed his face with water from the sink, taking a deep breath. His legs were still shaking.

“I'm a mess,” he muttered, unsure himself whether it was an observation about his physical appearance or a statement about his life in general. Maybe both.

“See, I'm lucky there,” Grantaire said breathlessly, zipping up his jeans. He looked quite happy with himself after what had just happened. “I'm always a mess - no one thinks anything about me having fucked-up hair. Even cologne and a button-down doesn't hide it."

Enjolras snorted, studying his reflection in the mirror again.  _ Do I look like I just got fucked in my friends’ bathroom? _ he wondered. It was a question he'd never had to ask himself before. It was a question he hoped he wouldn’t be asking himself again anytime soon. 

“Have they noticed we're missing?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder at Grantaire, who was peering down the hallway through a small crack in the door.

“Doesn't look like it,” Grantaire reported, straightening himself up. “I can hear them singing 'Where you are', so I think they went with Moana. I'll go slip back in. If we both get back at the same time it'll look weird.”

Enjolras nodded. “Okay,” he said. “See you there.”

“See you there.” Grantaire said, and with that he was gone, closing the bathroom door quietly behind him.

Enjolras sighed, sitting down on the toilet seat for a moment and steeling himself to go back outside. His heart was still pounding in his chest, doing backflips and somersaults and making him feel sick. He guessed this was it, then - they were just doomed to keep doing this indefinitely. 

Finally, deciding he'd left it long enough to avoid suspicion, he got to his feet, straightening his back and holding his head up high. No one would suspect anything, he told himself, as he stepped back out to join their friends, laughing loudly among themselves in the living room.

After all - Enjolras and Grantaire? 

It was unthinkable. 

  
  



	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update has me bravely writing the smut I couldn't write the first time.

Once was a mistake. Twice was a big mistake. But after three times, there was no denying that it was a habit. And, well, after the movie night at Joly, Bossuet and Grantaire's apartment - it became a habit.

They didn't discuss it. They didn't decide it. It just happened. 

Every Friday they met up to go fencing, inevitably tumbling into bed afterwards. Saturday's dancing was followed by more of the same, and at other times during the week they would invent excuses to see each other, timing it when they knew Joly and Bossuet would be out of the apartment or Combeferre would be staying at Courfeyrac's. 

They got good at sneaking around. _Really_ good.

Sometimes they would even book a hotel for the night. Grantaire would claim he was going out with some of his art friends, Enjolras would say he was making an unfortunate visit to his parents, and then the two of them would rendezvous at a hotel halfway between both their apartments where they wouldn't have to be quiet and going to the bathroom in the middle of the night didn't feel like something out of Mission Impossible.

That was how Enjolras had found himself here, sprawled across a king-sized bed in a tiny hotel in Clichy, watching Grantaire standing on the balcony in nothing but a pair of paint-stained boxers. He'd been there for a while now, having left the bed immediately after they were finished to smoke a cigarette. He was taking long, thoughtful drags, staring out at the city as if he could see something Enjolras couldn't. They'd paid extra for a room with a balcony – something that Enjolras thought bordered dangerously on the romantic.

“It's warm, isn't it?” Enjolras said eventually, desperate to break the silence. “This summer has been so long...”

“Not long enough,” Grantaire decided, still gazing intently over the rooftops. “I love summer. When it starts to get cold and dark again my mood plummets and I feel like shit.”

Enjolras propped himself up on his elbows, studying him carefully. He wanted to say something – to give him some kind of indication that he could open up to him if he needed to, but the words seemed lodged in his throat as if he had no right to speak them. Talking about that sort of thing was something you did with your closest friends or your boyfriend – not...whatever they were. Even calling them friends was a stretch; the only time there was any closeness between them was when they were having sex. Sad, really. Enjolras had come to enjoy his company a lot lately. 

“Come back to bed,” he said instead, watching as Grantaire flicked the spent remains of his cigarette over the balcony.

“What - again?” Grantaire said, finally turning to look at him.

Enjolras blushed. “Is that a problem?”

“No,” Grantaire said. “Definitely not. But I've got to admit I'm surprised by the extent of your, uh, appetite...”

“Don't say that,” Enjolras said, indignant. “That sounds awful!”

“Well am I wrong?” Grantaire teased, climbing onto the bed. “It's just an observation - you're very demanding.”

Enjolras snorted, turning onto his side. “Well, if I'm too much for you---”

“You'd never be too much for me,” Grantaire said instantly. Enjolras felt his heart leap up into his throat.

“Sorry,” Grantaire said after a moment, clearing his throat. “I – uh – I didn't mean that to sound so...”

So what, Enjolras thought? So romantic?

“So serious. I just meant, well - I'm having fun doing this. That's all.”

Enjolras' heart finally settled back where it belonged, still beating hard in his chest. “So am I,” he said. It wasn't a lie. He _was_ having fun doing this. It was just, well, a little bit more than this would have been even better.

He didn't know when the change had occurred - when the thought of casual sex had become unfulfilling, when his feelings had shifted to genuine affection. But they had, somewhere, and now he was wrestling with them night and day, seeing Grantaire in his dreams and fantasising about holding his hand like some kind of lovestruck schoolgirl. 

He said nothing though, instead rolling onto his back again and drawing Grantaire close to kiss him. It was soft at first, almost chaste, but then Grantaire moved to part Enjolras' lips with his tongue and all the innocence was gone from it in an instant, Enjolras happily sliding back on the mattress and pulling Grantaire down with him.

They broke apart for a moment, Grantaire's lips finding his neck instead. His coarse stubble scratched pleasantly at his skin, and Enjolras closed his eyes, relishing in the sensation. Grantaire was unfairly good at this. He knew exactly what to do – where to kiss him, where to touch him and how. By the time his hand was between his legs Enjolras was already at the point of begging, writhing around on the sheets to get more of his touch.

“Does that feel good?” Grantaire asked, voice husky. Enjolras felt his face grow hot; they didn't usually talk during. He nodded, swallowing hard.

“How about this?” He slipped a finger into him gently and Enjolras gasped, throwing his head back.

“Yes,” he said, panting the word out as Grantaire’s finger curled perfectly inside him. It was almost infuriating how quickly he had mastered the art of pleasing him. Just like fencing, dancing, painting and whatever else he put his mind to, Grantaire seemed to possess an innate talent for it. He added a second finger, moving them together, slowly, and Enjolras bucked his hips in approval.

“You really are just stunning, you know?” Grantaire said, awed. It was so unexpected that Enjolras lifted his head off the pillow to look at him, stunned. Grantaire withdrew his hand hastily, looking horribly ruffled as he realised what he’d just said. “Sorry,” he said, averting his gaze. “I'm getting a bit too caught up in the moment.”

“It's okay,” Enjolras said. It was more than okay. He was welcome to be as affectionate as he liked. He'd have told him that if he could get the words out.

“I didn't mean to make things awkward,” Grantaire promised.

“It's not awkward,” Enjolras assured him. He was feeling painfully bereft at the loss of his fingers inside him. “Really. It was the heat of the moment, that's all. Please don't stop.”

Grantaire let out a little sound in the back of his throat, nodding. “Okay,” he said, leaning down to kiss him again and shifting on the mattress as he removed his boxers. Enjolras met him passionately, sitting up and guiding Grantaire onto his back on the bed. Grantaire went more than willingly, the uncertain smile on his face growing more confident - and more wolfish - as Enjolras pinned him to the bed by his wrists.

“Getting a little bold, don’t you think?” he asked.

“Do you want me to stop?” Enjolras said, raising one eyebrow as he leaned over and took a condom from the nightstand. 

“Absolutely fucking not.”

Enjolras laughed. Satisfied with that he straddled him, grinding himself against his erection a few times and delighting in the way it made Grantaire pant and lift his hips off the mattress.

“This is torture, Enjolras,” Grantaire complained. “I thought you had a strong moral stance against such things?”

“Not in the bedroom.”

“Put me out of my misery - please!”

Enjolras would have liked to draw it out a little longer, to tease him just a little more, but he lacked the patience. He took Grantaire in hand, slipped the condom onto him, and then lowered himself down, letting out a low sound of pleasure as Grantaire filled him. Grantaire moaned. Enjolras started to move.

“Fuck,” Grantaire whispered, grabbing a fistful of duvet as though he needed to anchor himself to the bed. Enjolras smirked, placing his hands on Grantaire’s chest as he began to build up speed. Each time he brought himself down onto him a jolt of pleasure ran through him, Grantaire seeming to fill every inch of space inside him. It was glorious, divine, and it brought curses tumbling out of Enjolras’ mouth the likes of which he would never use any other time. He quickly found a rhythm, riding him like it was his last night on earth, and as he did he reached down to touch himself, Grantaire watching with a slack jaw, as if it was the hottest thing he’d ever seen. Enjolras considered it a compliment. A few weeks ago he’d been nervous and inexperienced - now he knew exactly what he liked. Fencing and dancing weren’t the only areas he’d made vast improvement. 

He began to move faster, feeling his release building up inside him like a storm, and leaned forwards so that he could kiss Grantaire messily on the mouth, his long hair covering them both like a veil. Grantaire’s hands came up to cup his cheeks in a gesture so tender it nearly coaxed the words 'I love you' from Enjolras' lips. A few more hard thrusts and he was gone, gasping and swearing against Grantaire’s mouth, trembling so violently that Grantaire’s hands moved to his shoulders to steady him. As the moment passed Enjolras felt Grantaire tense underneath him, felt his nails dig into his arms, and---

“ _Fuck_ ,” Grantaire bit the word out, hands reaching suddenly to grab Enjolras’ hips. He arched up and tipped his head back, swearing loudly again as he found completion. His fingers, gripping Enjolras so tightly that Enjolras imagined he would be bruised, relaxed suddenly. He exhaled a deep breath. Enjolras remained where he was, Grantaire still deep inside of him.

“Christ, Enjolras…” Grantaire panted. 

When he said his name it made something ache deep in Enjolras' chest - it was so easy to disconnect, to tell himself this was 'just sex', but when Grantaire said his name, whispering it like a prayer or shouting it like a curse, it felt, just for a moment, like it was more than that. Enjolras finally climbed off him, collapsing at his side.

There was always something heart-wrenchingly intimate about the immediate aftermath, he thought. The two of them lay side by side in comfortable silence. Enjolras closed his eyes, trying to imagine a scenario where this wouldn’t be the end - where instead they would fall asleep holding each other and kiss each other awake in the morning, complete with bedhead and morning breath. They would laugh and order breakfast, and then leave together, holding hands as they walked back to the metro station. He imagined them getting coffee together after classes, seeing movies, exchanging soft kisses in front of their friends without shame.

“Fuck,” Grantaire said again, draping his arm over his face. “That's me done for the night,” he announced. “I'm tapping out. I don't think I could go again if I wanted to.”

Enjolras turned onto his side to look at him, smiling. “Sorry for wearing you out,” he said playfully.

Grantaire huffed out a laugh. “I wasn't complaining,” he said. He pulled off the condom and flung it in the general direction of the bin, stretching out across the bed. “Just stating a fact.”

Enjolras stared at him fondly for a little while, longing to reach out and touch him, to curl up against his chest as he fell asleep. This was unfamiliar territory for Enjolras. He'd never felt so pitiful, yearning so desperately for something so simple. Each time they met up like this Enjolras’ feelings got more and more tangled up. Each time they seemed closer, more tender, more intimate. Grantaire had gone to the trouble of booking them a room with a balcony. He called him stunning and kissed him like he loved him. It was romantic, almost.

But once they were both spent something seemed to switch off; he'd move away and barely touch him, would hardly even look at him, favouring a cigarette and idle conversation over the intimacy they had just shared. But now, as he watched Grantaire starting to doze off beside him, the light from the sunset spilling into the room and turning the white bedsheets to gold, Enjolras found he couldn't help himself: without even thinking he closed the space between them on the mattress, wrapping his arms around Grantaire and nuzzling his face against his shoulder. 

“Why don't we go out to dinner tonight?” he suggested, pressing a gentle kiss against Grantaire's collarbone. “It would make a change from spending the whole night in bed...”

Grantaire froze, going so stiff that it felt like hugging a statue.

“What?” he said, voice catching slightly.

Enjolras felt his stomach sink. “I said maybe we could go out to dinner---”

“I heard,” Grantaire said, sitting up so abruptly that he shook Enjolras off him as he did. “I---no. That's – no. Definitely not.”

Enjolras recoiled, hurt. “I'm sorry,” he started. “I didn't mean to upset you, I just thought---”

“That would be a bad idea,” Grantaire said bluntly. “This isn't a relationship. I'm not---I'm not your boyfriend,” his voice cracked a little on the word. “Don't make this any more complicated than it already is. Please.”

Enjolras sucked in a deep breath, looking down. Clearly his advances weren't welcome after all. “You're right,” he said. “You're not my boyfriend.”

The rejection stung far more than he expected it to. Did he really want it so badly?

“After all people don't shove their boyfriends underneath the bed because they're scared of their friends finding out...” he added, a little more coldly than he had intended.

Grantaire bristled. “Are you still pissed about that?”

“Can't you tell?”

“Look, you didn't want them to find out either,” Grantaire said. “I'm clearly nothing to you but a dirty secret, so you can't blame me for helping you keep it---”

“Don't say it like that!” Enjolras said, outraged. “Grantaire---”

“Well it's true!” Grantaire spat. “God forbid people find out we're fucking, hey? What would they think of righteous, dignified Enjolras if they knew he was hooking up with me, right?”

“That's not it!”

“Everyone knows you can't stand me.”

“What? That isn't true!”

“Sure it isn't.”

“It's not! Why the hell would I be here having sex with you if I couldn't stand you?”

“The hell if I know!” Grantaire said, throwing up his hands in exasperation. “I don't get whatever's going on in your head, Enjolras. You're worlds away from me.”

“I don't understand---”

“Of course you don't. Fuck, I knew this was a bad idea. I fucking knew it and like an idiot I still went along with it because---”

“Because what?” Enjolras demanded. Grantaire hesitated.

“It doesn't matter,” he said, alighting the bed and starting to gather up his clothes. Seeing this, realising immediately that he intended to leave, Enjolras panicked.

“Okay, fine, I---forget I said anything,” he begged, scrambling to salvage the situation. “Come back to bed, I'll make it up to you---”

“How?”

“Well, I mean,” Enjolras flushed. “I can go down on---”

“Christ, Enjolras! Are you seriously trying to end this argument by sucking my dick?!” Grantaire yelled, probably loud enough for the people in the next room to hear. He looked horrified. “Fucking hell – no wonder you've never had a real relationship!”

Enjolras jerked his head back, insulted. “ _Excuse me?_ ”

“Well look – you just....you don't get it, do you?” Grantaire accused, angrily pulling up his jeans.

“Get what?”

“Forget it. I'm leaving.”

“Grantaire, don't---”

“I have to. I need to clear my head,” he pulled his shirt with such force he sent a few dark curls of hair bouncing. “I left my wallet on the nightstand. You can use it to pay for the room. Contrary to popular belief I'm not a _complete_ asshole,” he muttered, slamming the door behind him as he left.

“Grantaire!”

Enjolras sat there on the bed for a moment, trying to piece together what, exactly, had just happened. Whatever it was, he didn't think he and Grantaire would be meeting up to go fencing on Friday – or anytime soon, for that matter.

_Fuck._

 


	9. Chapter 9

By the time Grantaire got back to the apartment he was crying.

Not just crying - ugly crying, the kind of crying that hurt your throat and stung your eyes and made your nose all stuffed up.

This wasn't how he'd intended his evening to pan out. Hell, an hour earlier he'd been in heaven, Enjolras panting underneath him, a look of ecstasy on his face that, for Grantaire, had quite frankly been a religious experience. 

Sure, the whole arrangement with Enjolras was easily the most soul-destroying idiotic decision he'd ever made in his whole life, and sure, Enjolras could never love him - but that didn't mean he wasn't going to enjoy every last moment of their affair while it lasted.

Well, he had. He guessed it was as good as over now.

“R, holy shit – what's wrong?”

The sound of Joly's voice made him flinch. Wednesday nights were usually date night with Musichetta. On the way home he’d been hoping they’d already left, but apparently fate and dramatic irony had timed his return at the worst possible moment, just as Joly and Bossuet were preparing to leave.

“I'm fine,” he croaked out, making a bee-line for his room. “Really.”

He didn't look it, he knew. Far from it. The woman sitting across from him on the Metro had apparently thought he looked so unhinged that she'd moved several seats down just to avoid him.

It probably didn't help that he'd spent the last few hours fucking Enjolras senseless – the messy hair, the red face...well, paired with bawling his eyes out like a baby it wasn’t exactly a good look. 

“Do you really think we're buying that?” Bossuet said. Grantaire gave a weak shrug.

“I dunno. Kind of hoped you might,” he said.

“Come sit down,” Joly urged. “We can talk about it.”

“I don't think that's a good idea.”

“Neither is running off to your room and dealing with it by yourself,” Bossuet said. “If you really want us to leave you alone, we will, but...”

“We'd rather help you with it if we can,” Joly finished, offering him his hand.

Grantaire hated the way they did that – the way they managed to break down his walls and make him actually, like, deal with his feelings and shit. It was unfair. Just when he'd started to get really good at his unhealthy coping mechanisms Joly and Bossuet came along offering him love and support and genuine friendship. It sucked.

“Okay,” he said eventually, accepting defeat.

They guided him over to the sofa, sitting him down and taking a place either side of him.

“Take deep breaths,” Joly said, rubbing his back.

“Yeah,” Bossuet said, draping a blanket over his shoulders. “And don't hold it in if you need to cry it out. Guys can cry. It's not healthy to bottle that shit up.”

“It's not,” Joly agreed.

Grantaire wiped his eyes, shaking his head. “I really am fine,” he said again, fully aware that he was very obviously not.

“Has something happened?” Bossuet asked, forehead creasing with concern. “You can tell us, R...”

“Yeah,” Joly said, exchanging a worried look with Bossuet. “Did you...well, did you fall off the wagon, or...?”

“No. I'm not drunk. I just---” Grantaire sniffled loudly, scrunching his hands up in his hair. “Fuck, it's so messed up.”

“What is?”

“I don't think I can say,” he said. “You won't believe me. Or you will and you'll freak out.”

“We'll believe you, R," Bossuet said. "And we won't freak out – we promise.”

“Yeah – pinky promise, even,” Joly vowed, holding out his little finger. “We can be chill about it. Whatever it is.”

Grantaire didn't respond for a moment, wondering what to say. Was it even worth trying to hide it anymore? “I've been sleeping with Enjolras.” he said, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he could stop them.

There was a beat of silence.

“Holy shit!” Joly said.

“Yeah,” Grantaire muttered, pulling the blanket tightly around himself. “Holy shit.”

“How did  _ that _ happen?"

“I don't even know,” Grantaire admitted miserably. “We went fencing together and I guess things got kind of heated. We came back here and hooked up and...and since then it's been a regular thing.”

“Is that why you've not been coming out with us at weekends?” Joly said, outraged. “Because you've been too busy fucking Enjolras?!”

“Well, yeah,” Grantaire confessed, voice hoarse. “And, you know, the drinking thing---”

“We've already told you we can go to places that don't serve alcohol,” Bossuet reminded him. “Or we can order you mocktails or coke or juice or something all night. Whatever you need, R. We want to help you.”

“We're really proud you switched your fencing to Fridays,” Joly agreed, nodding. “It was a smart decision, stamping out the temptation to go out and get drunk.”

“Yeah, well, as it turns out I just replaced one vice with another,” Grantaire whispered, looking down. “God, it's so fucked up.”

“So did you guys, uh...break up or something?” Bossuet said.

“Break up?” Grantaire let out a bitter laugh. “No, Boss. We weren't – I mean, we aren't together. It was just...casual.”

“Casual?” Bossuet echoed, raising his eyebrows. “With...Enjolras?”

“I know, shocking.”

“But...Enjolras? Are you sure?”

“Am I sure?” Grantaire cried. “Are you kidding me? Of course I'm sure, I've been fucking him for two months! Who else could it be, an evil twin?!”

“No, I mean – are you sure it's casual,” Bossuet corrected. “Like, you sure he doesn't think it's something more...?”

“Of course not,” Grantaire scoffed. “Like he'd actually have any real interest in me. All I ever do is piss him off.”

“And get him off, apparently,” Joly quipped.

“Not helpful.”

“Sorry.”

“But really – Enjolras? Casual sex? That doesn't like, fit him, you know?” Bossuet said, still baffled. “He's so. Serious.”

“Tell me something I don't know,” Grantaire sighed.

“Well, he has been more laid back recently,” Joly commented. “Maybe he just needed a good dicking down....”

“Do you have to?” Grantaire groaned, dropping his head into his hands. “This isn't making it any easier!"

“Fuck, you're right. Sorry,” Joly said, smiling guiltily. “But really - who thought this was a good idea?”

“I guess both of us, I guess? It doesn't matter. We're not doing it again.”

“I hope you guys were being safe---”

“Joly!”

“Sorry!"

“Try and look at it, uh, positively – if you can,” Bossuet said. “At least it gave you something to think about other than the need to drink, hey?”

“Oh yeah,” Grantaire said dryly. “That was great. But now it's over I've never wanted a drink more in my whole life.”

“Well don't,” Joly said. “We'll get you some icecream and I'll hook my laptop up to the TV and we'll watch something instead. Does that sound like a good alternative?”

“What about 'Chetta?”

“I'll message her,” Joly said, waving the thought away. “She's an angel - she'll understand. Now – ice-cream and TV. What do you say?”

“Does the icecream have vodka in it?”

“Obviously not.”

Grantaire sighed, throwing his head back against the sofa/ “Fine,” he said. “But I'll have you know this totally ruins my plans to cry into my pillow and sleep for three days.”

“Great!” Joly said cheerfully. “I'll go get my laptop!”

“Now R,” Bossuet said, shuffling a little closer to him on the sofa. “I know you're too noble to kiss and tell---”

Grantaire snorted.

“---But I need to know for science reasons if Enjolras is into any weird kinky shit.”

“I'm not saying anything,” Grantaire said firmly. “Fuck, I don't need any more reason for him to come here and kill me. Just telling you it ever happened is bad enough – I doubt he wants anyone to know his standards are that low.”

“R----”

“Let's just pick something to watch.”

-

It was past midnight when his phone buzzed. Joly and Bossuet had passed out on either side of him, and 'Buzzfeed Unsolved' was still on autoplay on the TV. For a moment Grantaire thought maybe he'd imagined it – he was so tired he wouldn't have been surprised – but after a few minutes it buzzed again, vibrating so loudly on the coffee table that he thought for sure it would wake Joly and Bossuet. He picked it up, stomach sinking when he got a look at the notifications on his screen.

_ 'Can we talk?' _

_ 'I'm sorry if I upset you.' _

_ 'Do you mind telling me what I did wrong?' _

Grantaire almost wanted to laugh, a strangled sound catching in his throat. What he'd done wrong! Ha. That was the problem, really – Enjolras hadn't done  _ anything  _ wrong. All he'd done was ask Grantaire if he wanted to go to dinner – perfectly understandable considering they'd worked up quite an appetite. The problem wasn't what Enjolras had done or said – the problem was it had felt, just for a moment, like they were in a real relationship.

And Grantaire couldn't handle that – not when it wasn't.

What he had with Enjolras was fun, there was no doubt about that. Hell, how could it not be? He got to have passionate, incredibly satisfying sex with possibly the most beautiful person that had ever existed (okay, maybe Grantaire was biased, but still,). He got to feel Enjolras' pulse racing beneath his lips. He got to hear the sounds he made when he was close. He got to watch him tremble and gasp and writhe around on the bedsheets, knowing it was because of him. It was more than Grantaire could have ever dreamed of. 

But that was all it was - fun. At least on Enjolras' part. And when it was over – pretty much the exact instant it was over, in fact – Grantaire was left with a hollow feeling in his chest and a bitter taste in his mouth. It was an illusion, of sorts. A brief amount of time in which Grantaire and Enjolras were madly, beautifully in love, like something from an old romantic movie. Grantaire kissed him like he loved him – because he did – and fucked him like it would be the last time – because it could be.

Afterwards, when Enjolras was drifting off to sleep next to him in bed, Grantaire would stare up at the ceiling and remind himself; it's not real. It's not real, it's not real – over and over in his head like a mantra, just in case he got a bit too bold, just in case he let himself hope. And then tonight Enjolras had gone and unwittingly kept that illusion alive just a little too long afterwards for Grantaire to stand. It had been painful. 

He sighed, staring at his phone for a few minutes.

_ 'You didn't do anything,' _ He replied.  _ 'I overreacted' _

There was a long pause, and then the dreaded little '…' that indicated Enjolras was typing a response.

_ 'Really?' _ he said.

_ 'Yeah. Sorry.' _

_ 'I'm sorry too.' _

Another pause. More typing.

_ 'Why don't you come over? I'm still at the hotel...' _

_ No _ , Grantaire's heart practically screamed, rattling his ribs in his chest like a prisoner shaking the bars of their jail cell;  _ don't do this to yourself! _

It was a bad idea, obviously. The Metro would be closing soon – if he wanted to get there he'd have to run for it. It was dark outside and he was still a mess from earlier, stinking of stale sweat and cigarette smoke. Hardly sexually appealing.

And then on top of that there was the slight issue of Joly and Bossuet – okay, they were asleep, but if they found out he'd ditched to go make the same mistake again they'd kill him, and it would be ruled justifiable homicide for sure.

He grabbed his coat, getting to his feet.  _ No _ , his heart sang, don't keep hurting yourself. But hey, he was well known for poor decisions, and why break the habit of a lifetime? He was only human, and, well, his dick was saying something completely different to his heart.

_ 'On my way,' _ he texted back.

_ 'See you soon.' _

 


	10. Chapter 10

Enjolras didn't know how to feel. Betrayed, maybe? He wasn't sure he had the right to be. They weren't in a relationship, afterall. 

Hurt, then? Definitely. Hurt was an understatement.

He'd waited for an hour.

Hell, technically he'd waited all night, but it was just after 1:30 in the morning that he'd finally given up and gone to sleep, crying into the hotel pillow and feeling utterly humiliated.

When Grantaire had agreed to come back to the hotel he'd been relieved. He'd showered and put on a little cologne before lounging across the bed in nothing but his boxers in anticipation of Grantaire's return, hoping he'd be a pleasant surprise for him when he did.

But Grantaire had never shown up – and he hadn't texted back.

Enjolras should have probably expected it, he thought. He'd obviously struck a nerve during their fight, and Grantaire was hardly renowned for being reliable. He'd probably blown him off like this to teach him a lesson. What that lesson was Enjolras didn't know, since Grantaire still hadn't told him what he'd done that was so heinous it warranted being stood up in the cruellest way possible. It seemed like his fatal mistake had been...well, being affectionate. If Grantaire didn't want that, fine, but it hardly seemed deserving of this.

So yes, he should have probably expected this – but it still hurt.

He'd wanted to make up – at least to the extent that friends with benefits could make up, anyway. He'd wanted to tell him that he was sorry in person, to open up his heart and pour out the truth – to tell him that he was confused, and he was letting those feelings get mixed in with the sex until every rendezvous was a complicated jumble of emotions.

But Grantaire had never returned, and Enjolras had been left feeling like he'd been punched in the gut.

The ride back home on the Metro had been a miserable one.

-

He let himself back into the apartment as quietly as possible, not wanting to wake Combeferre, and headed straight in the direction of his bedroom.

He'd only made it three steps into the living room when the curtains were suddenly thrown open, morning light rushing into the room to reveal Courfeyrac standing by the window in 'Hello Kitty' pyjamas, his arms folded across his chest in a way that was far too serious looking for his outfit.

“Good morning,” he dead-panned. “Did you have a nice visit with your parents?”

“What?” Enjolras said, blinking in surprise.

“That's where you were last night – right?” Courfeyrac said, tilting his head. “That's what you told Combeferre, anyway...”

Enjolras swallowed hard. “I---oh, yeah. It was fine,” he shrugged. “Nothing to report.”

“You're visiting them a lot lately,” Courfeyrac remarked.

“They're my parents.”

“You hate them, Enjolras.”

“Well---”

“Just stop lying, okay?”

Enjolras stiffened. There was a knowing glint in Courfeyrac's eyes. “I don't know what you mean,” he said.

“Oh come on, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac sighed, throwing up his hands. “It's obvious you're sneaking out somewhere else. You've been doing it for weeks. I was hoping you'd just tell me what you're doing – we're best friends – but this is getting ridiculous.”

“Well, I---”

“I'm not buying your story about crashing at Grantaire's that Friday you came home to find me and 'Ferre together,” Courfeyrac said bluntly, cutting across him. 

Enjolras felt his mouth drop open. “What?”

“You said you didn't sleep because the sofa was uncomfortable. But that sofa is like, the most comfortable thing ever, so I'm not falling for it.”

“How do you know I don't just have really high standards?” Enjolras countered, face starting to turn red.

“Come on, Enj!” Courfeyrac groaned. “This isn't 'The Princess And The Pea' – I know you were raised in the lap of luxury, but you're still a student. I found you asleep on the kitchen floor on the way to make coffee that time you pulled two all-nighters in a row for an essay. You can sleep on anything.”

Enjolras didn't have anything to respond with to that. He simply stood there like he'd been turned to stone, waiting to be hit by whatever was about to come out of Courfeyrac's mouth next.

“So,” Courfeyrac continued slowly. “You either stayed somewhere else entirely, and you're not telling me...” he raised one eyebrow, a smug smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Or you stayed in Grantaire's bedroom.”

Enjolras felt his heart jump up into his throat. He must have made some kind of affirmative sound – a squeak or a whimper or something else totally inhuman that gave him away – because Courfeyrac's eyes grew as wide as saucers. He grinned.

“I knew it!” he cried, punching the air. “You and Grantaire?! Holy shit! About fucking time!”

“I---what do you mean about time?” Enjolras said, finally recovering the power of speech.

“Well, you know,” Courfeyrac said. “It's been a long time coming, hasn't it?”

“It has?”

“Sure! God, that's so cute – I'm so happy for you guys!”

“Happy for us?” Enjolras said, voice growing small. "Oh. No, Courfeyrac, it's not like that.”

“Not like what?” Courfeyrac asked.

“We're not together,” Enjolras said, forcing the words out. “It...it's just sex.”

Courfeyrac froze so suddenly it was almost comical. “Just sex?” he said.

Enjolras nodded. “We've been hooking up a few nights a week since that Friday.”

“Fuck,” Courfeyrac breathed. “Holy hell Enj, is that why you've been so laid back? I know we told you to get a hobby, but I meant like, knitting or something, not riding Grantaire's dick.”

Enjolras winced. If only he knew how accurate his words were. 

“Well, we still go fencing,” he said weakly. “And dancing, every Saturday. Well...we did,” he said, feeling tears starting to sting his eyes. He’d thought he’d spent the lot of them back at the hotel room, but apparently there were still more to be shed.

“What? Why 'did'?” Courfeyrac demanded, expression darkening. “What's wrong? Has he upset you?"

“I, well,” Enjolras looked down at his feet. “It doesn't matter, it----”

“Enjolras,”

The gentle tone of Courfeyrac's voice was what finally broke him. He'd been holding it in admirably, but now it was like a dam bursting, everything spilling over at once in a tidal wave.

“He stood me up!” he wailed, covering his face with his hands. “He stood me up!”

“He  _ what?! _ ” Courfeyrac said, outraged.

“We fought, last night,” Enjolras said, fighting for breath between his sobs. “We were staying at a hotel in Clichy and we had a big fight, and...and he left. And then a few hours later, we were texting, I thought we'd made up – I invited him to come back to the hotel and he said he was on his way,” he wiped his eyes, furious with himself for being so emotional about...about what, exactly? Casual sex? Was he really getting that attached to Grantaire?

“And?” Courfeyrac pressed.

“And he never showed up,” Enjolras got out, bursting into tears again. “He ditched me!”

“What a  _ dick! _ ” Courfeyrac declared, wrapping his arms around him. “Hey – it's okay. Come on, let's sit down. I'll make coffee and you can bitch about him if you need to.”

“Would that help?”

“In my experience. Come on – you can tell me all about how shitty he is in bed.”

“He's not, though."

“Then lie. Geez. I'm trying to make you feel better!"

-

“So  _ what _ started the fight, exactly?” Courfeyrac asked for the third time, sitting across from him on the sofa. 

“I don't really know,” Enjolras admitted, sipping his coffee. It helped to have something warm and comforting in his stomach. His insides had been in knots for hours. “I asked him if we could go to dinner,” he said. “Because, well, you know - we'd been - and I mean - I was hungry, afterwards. Anyway, he froze up and got all...weird about it.”

“Over going to dinner?” Courfeyrac clarified.

“Yes.”

“I mean, like a date, or...?”

“No! I mean – I don't know. Maybe?” Enjolras said, sighing. “I really don't even know anymore. It's all gotten so confusing.”

“Well, yeah – sometimes fucking your friend gets confusing, Enjolras, shocking as that may seem,” Courfeyrac said. He smiled sympathetically. “You have to try and examine your feelings, though.”

“I do?” Enjolras said, grimacing at the thought.

“Yeah. Sorry. It's the grown-up thing to do. Rich of me to say that, I know, but, yeah. I had to do it,” Courfeyrac reminded him. “So now it's your turn.”

“I suppose...” Enjolras looked down into his mug, frowning thoughtfully. “I just don't know what to make of it all. At first it was just sex – really, it was. I think. Probably. But like...I enjoy fencing with him, and dancing. I like having sex with him, obviously, but...I also like talking to him, and...” he trailed off, feeling his voice dry up in his throat.

“And...?” Courfeyrac said.

“And it's confusing!” Enjolras groaned. Courfeyrac slung one arm around his shoulders, bringing him in against his chest to hug him.

“I know, hon,” he said, petting his hair affectionately. “Relationships are difficult.”

“It's not a relationship,” Enjolras insisted feebly. By now saying it was 'just sex' was starting to feel worn out. And inaccurate, too - he knew full well that it was much more than that. 

He thought back to all the times he'd longed for Grantaire to hold him afterwards, thought about how much he wanted him to gather him into his arms and kiss him, how much he wanted to fall asleep with their hands clasped together. He thought about the warmth in Grantaire's eyes, sweet as honey, and the softness of his laughter. He thought about the feeling that swelled in his chest whenever they touched, the words that had perched precariously on the tip of his tongue only hours earlier. That phrase - that phrase that could bring a man to his knees, that he'd almost shouted out in passion dozens of times.

“Shit,” he said out loud, certain that he must have looked as pale as a ghost.

“What?” Courfeyrac asked. “What's wrong?”

“ _ Shit _ ,” Enjolras repeated again, with added feeling.

“Enjolras---”

“I think I love him.”

Courfeyrac let out a low whistle, taking a large gulp of his coffee. “Wow," he said. "Well, I'm glad you said it so I didn't have to."

Enjolras frowned. “What?”

“Well, it's kind of obvious, if you don’t mind me saying. It has been for a while. Even before the whole fuckbuddy thing.”

“I hate that term...”

“Well, my point stands,” Courfeyrac said. “You've always got all hot and bothered around him. If you really found him as disruptive as you claim to you'd have stopped him coming to the meetings years ago.”

“No I wouldn't!” Enjolras protested. “Our meetings are a democracy!”

“Yeah, yeah, but you still would have if he was that much of an asshole,” Courfeyrac smirked. “Look – it's okay. Don't feel bad about it. It's natural. It's good, even. Embrace it.”

“Embrace it?”

“Yeah. And talk to him,” Courfeyrac suggested. “Like adults.”

“I don't want to talk to him after last night,” Enjolras said, setting his coffee mug down on the table a little more forcefully than necessary. “Even if it's just sex to him that was out of line. He stood me up.”

"And that is super shitty,” Courfeyrac agreed. “But maybe he stood you up because he's freaking out about this too.”

“I doubt it. I don't want to see him – not for a while, anyway.”

Courfeyrac gave a heavy sigh. “Well, I tried,” he said. “But avoiding him is going to be difficult. He's probably going to be at the meeting later.”

“I'll ignore him,” Enjolras vowed. He knew he was being stubborn – ridiculously so – but the hurt was still there, a raw, open wound. He wasn't quite ready to confront the issue just yet.

“Courfeyrac?”

He glanced up to see Combeferre padding tiredly into the room, cleaning the lenses of his glasses on his shirt. "It's early," he said, yawning loudly. “What's going on?”

“Can I tell him?” Courfeyrac asked, turning to Enjolras.

“Sure,” Enjolras said flatly, accepting defeat. “There's no point keeping secrets from you two anyway.”

“Enjolras and Grantaire have been having no-strings-attached hookups for months and now they've had a fight and Enjolras realised he's in love," Courfeyrac said, without pausing for breath once. 

Combeferre barely reacted, slowly putting on his glasses and blinking a few times. 

“Oh,” he said, without much feeling. “That's rough. Is there any coffee left?”

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back to this! Also, I've edited this version a bit AND added a sex scene where I previously chickened out, so if you enjoy this fic - I'd suggest re-reading it for full enjoyment! Merci!
> 
> ALSO: WARNING for mentions of depression/suicidal ideation/past suicide attempts etc.

By the time the meeting rolled around hours later Enjolras had managed to pull himself together enough to be mad at Grantaire. Because, well, it was a shitty thing to do, standing someone up – even if you thought it was casual. Enjolras had passed devastated into angry, and he was determined to stay that way. Better that than an emotional mess, he thought.

Fortunately, however, Courfeyrac had confiscated his phone from him before he'd been able to hit 'send' on the five paragraph long message about how he was in love with Grantaire and how Grantaire was an asshole. 

Enjolras had been pretty determined to send it at the time, as he'd been shoveling spoonful after spoonful of double-mint-chocolate-chip icecream into his mouth and ranting to Combeferre, but now he was pretty sure he would have regretted it - and probably had to live the rest of his life under the witness protection program. Quite a turn of events, Courfeyrac playing the part of impulse control, but Enjolras was grateful for it.

Grantaire wasn't there when they arrived at the Musain, and though Enjolras felt a twinge of disappointment he realised he should have probably expected that. Of _course_ Grantaire would want to avoid him – he wasn't even replying to any of his texts.

He’d barely made it into the room when he was cornered by the door by Joly and Bossuet. They did not look happy.

“Where's R?” Joly asked, looking over Enjolras' shoulder as though expecting to see him. 

“Shouldn't you know that seeing as you're his roommate?” Enjolras asked, stepping around him.

“Yeah, I'm his roommate,” Joly said, stopping him with his cane. “But I wasn't the one that was with him last night.”

Enjolras froze, turning to look at him. “What?”

“We know, Enjolras.”

“I don't----”

“He told us everything,” Bossuet said. “About the two of you...?”

Enjolras felt heat rush to his cheeks. He wanted to be even angrier at Grantaire for telling them – he should have been, really. It had been a secret, he thought they’d agreed. But then again he'd cracked under minimal pressure from Courfeyrac, and willingly confessed all to Combeferre. He supposed if his two best friends knew about it he could hardly criticise Grantaire for telling his. 

“Oh,” he said, trying to feign nonchalance. “And?”

“And? And he was with you last night!” Bossuet said. “He told us everything and we sat down to watch TV, and then the next thing we know---”

“We're waking up at 1:00AM to find him gone,” Joly finished, crossing his arms. “We know he went back to you, so just fess up. Where is he? Too fucked-out to bother calling us?”

Enjolras bristled at the accusation. “For your information, he stood me up," he said coldly. “He wasn't with me. He said he was coming over and then he never showed. He---wait,” he broke off mid-sentence, stomach sinking. Something didn't add up. “You...you haven't heard from him either?”

“No,” Joly said, voice growing suddenly quiet. “Wait, are you serious? He never turned up?”

“No. I...I thought he was just being a dick, so I didn't get worried, I....oh my god.”

“Fuck,” Bossuet whispered. “Oh fuck. That's bad. We haven't heard from him since.”

“He's not sent you a text or anything, has he?” Joly said.

Enjolras shook his head. “No,” he said. “Nothing.”

“ _Fuck!”_ Joly turned to Bossuet, the two of them as wide-eyed as each other. “We have to find him. This could be - this could be so bad…”

“He’s a grown man,” Enjolras put in pitifully. “I’m sure he can handle himself. He’s probably just hungover somewhere…”

“He quit drinking,” Bossuet told him. “Months ago. He’d been doing great. Why do you think he switched his fencing to Fridays? It was so he'd be less tempted to go out by himself and get wasted. We've been taking him to restaurants and clubs where we can keep an eye on him and help him out."

Enjolras’ heart dropped like a stone. How had he not known that? All this time paying added attention to Grantaire, but he’d somehow missed something that big?

“Oh,” he said. “Well, still. I’m sure he’s okay. Like I said, he’s a grown man…”

“Yeah, he is,” Joly whirled around to look at him. “And he’s troubled as fuck. This is bad, Enjolras. I don’t think you understand quite how serious it could be. A few years ago he - well, he - there was pills involved. It was a close thing."

Enjolras swallowed hard. He remembered what Joly had asked Grantaire about his ‘episodes’ as he’d hidden under his bed, remembered Grantaire standing on a hotel balcony the day before, talking about how when summer died his mood plummeted. Suddenly he was terrified that Grantaire had not stood him up at all - rather, that Grantaire had simply stood life up for good. 

“You don’t think…” 

“I don’t know,” Joly said. “But we need to spread out and find him.”

“We’ll head back towards Clichy,” Courfeyrac suggested. “Near the hotel.”

“I’ll start calling around the hospitals,” Combeferre said.

Enjolras nodded, already heading for the door when Bossuet’s phone started to ring. Bossuet picked it up, expression fluctuating rapidly between a dozen different emotions as he answered with a string of ‘yes’s and ‘no’s. Enjolras watched, holding his breath. Finally, he hung up.

“He’s at Lariboisière.”

“The hospital?” Courfeyrac gasped. 

“He’s okay,” Bossuet said. "Don't worry."

 _He’s okay._ The relief nearly knocked Enjolras off his feet. He wanted to sink to his knees and cry. 

“What happened?” Joly asked.

“He was mugged in Clichy,” Bossuet said. “He’s been unconscious - the hospital couldn’t contact anyone because he doesn’t have any ID. They’ve been waiting for him to come round, he’s just been able to give the nurses my number…”

No ID. Of course not - he’d left his wallet with Enjolras.

“We’ll go see him, then,” Joly said, pulling on his jacket. “You go tell the others what’s happened."

"Will do."

"Oh - wait," Joly cringed. "Maybe, uh, leave out the part about Enjolras…”

Enjolras couldn't agree more.

 

-

 

It was a nightmare, trying to get the whole group to the hospital. Getting that many people from one place to another was bad enough on a night out, but now? With everyone worried about Grantaire? They’d taken two taxis between them, and with Marius hyperventilating into a paper bag and Jehan trying to send Grantaire ‘healing vibes’, Enjolras was pretty sure that both taxi drivers were contemplating throwing them out by the time they reached Lariboisière, moving vehicle or no. 

“What was he even doing walking around in Clichy that late?” asked Feuilly, crammed into the back seat between Enjolras and Courfeyrac. “I don’t think he has any hobbies or friends in the part of town.”

“No idea,” Enjolras said. “It doesn’t really matter though, does it? He’s okay. That’s what matters.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. Still.”

“You can ask him yourself when you see him,” Eponine said, sitting across from them. She was tapping her foot incessantly on the floor of the van - more anxious about Grantaire than she’d admit to, Enjolras thought. He hoped Grantaire knew just how much his friends loved him.

 

-

 

Enjolras was sure he'd never felt sorrier for anyone than he did the poor woman on the reception desk at Lariboisière. It looked like it had been a quiet afternoon until they’d shown up in force, clamouring over each other to ask after Grantaire. Fortunately there were very few other people in the waiting room. 

“I nearly did my internship here,” Joly commented when they were finally all seated. “But then I saw it had low reviews on Google maps.”

“Good to see you’re basing your important life choices on what disgruntled English tourists write on the internet,” Eponine deadpanned. She was still tapping her foot. 

“Do you think he’ll be hungry?” Bahorel put in, visibly eyeing up the vending machine. “He’s got to be, right? Hospital food sucks.”

Enjolras couldn’t focus on anything. As several of their friends launched into a discussion about what to get Grantaire to eat he found himself staring ahead at the wall, acutely aware of Grantaire’s wallet in his back pocket. If he’d not left it in the hotel room he might have had ID, and they might have gotten here sooner. Or his attackers would have taken his wallet, ID included, and Grantaire would have lost what little money he had to his name. Enjolras didn’t know whether or not to feel guilty about that - but everything else? Oh, he felt guilty about that for sure. He’d caused the argument that had sent Grantaire running - somehow, though he still wasn’t sure how. And then he’d invited him back, prompting Grantaire to go walking through the city late at night. Enjolras wanted to kick himself. He’d practically delivered him straight to his mugger. 

As he was thinking this a nurse finally approached, causing everyone to leap to their feet. She gave a long-suffering sigh.

“Well?” Courfeyrac asked. “How is he?”

“You’re here for Monsieur Grantaire?”

“Yes!”

“All of you?”

“Yes!”

She frowned. “As I mentioned on the phone, he’s conscious now. He’s alright - a few stitches and a mild concussion. He’ll be able to leave in a couple of hours, once the doctor has given him a last look over.”

Audible sighs of relief from the group - Enjolras included.

“Can we see him?” Joly asked.

“Yes - but not all of you at once,” the nurse said sternly. “Who is his next of kin?”

“His family lives in the Auvergne, and they don’t speak to him,” Bossuet said. “We’re the next best thing.”

“Alright. Who’s going first, then?”

A sudden uproar as everyone began to stake their claim on being the first to see him. 

“We’re his roommates!” Joly said for himself and Bossuet. 

“I’m his boxing buddy!” Bahorel protested.

“I’m his conscience,” Jehan said.

The nurse expelled a deep breath, rubbing her temple. She looked like she was considering turning them all out again, and truthfully Enjolras could hardly blame her.  “Okay,” she said. “I’m going to say it again - _not all of you at once!_ ”

“I want to see him,” Enjolras finally grew brave enough to say, so timidly he thought she might not have heard him. 

“And who are you?” she asked.

Enjolras’ stomach turned over. “I’m his boyfriend.”

Complete silence greeted his words. It was like someone had pressed mute on their friend group. And then:

“ _WHAT?!_ ”

Eponine, being the first to say what everyone was thinking. Chaos ensued. Shouting, yelling, gasps of surprise. Marius fainted. 

“Good enough for me,” the nurse said, gesturing for Enjolras to follow her. “Come this way.”

“No way!” he heard Bahorel shout as he trailed after her down the corridor. “I’ve gotta be imagining this. Jehan, what the hell was in that cigarette?”

  
  
  



	12. Chapter 12

Seeing Grantaire in a hospital bed was almost too much for Enjolras.

He was okay - that much was clear when he laid eyes upon him. He was sitting up, not hooked up to any machines the way people always were in movies or edgy Netflix dramas. There was a cut on his left cheek, long enough to have warranted stitches, and he had a black-eye. It looked like his nose had taken a beating, too. Just another break to add to the others, Enjolras supposed. Despite the fact he was obviously going to survive the ordeal, Enjolras felt sick with guilt. He had inadvertently had a part in putting him there, inviting him back to the hotel so late at night. If Enjolras had just waited and texted the next morning Grantaire would’ve spent the night sound asleep in his own bed - not unconscious in a hospital ward.

He looked up when he saw Enjolras’ approach, eyes darkening.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” Enjolras replied, taking a seat in the chair beside the bed. He didn't know what to say. He hadn't thought about that - it hadn't seemed important. All he'd known was that he wanted to be by Grantaire's side.

“I have your wallet," he said, the first thing that came to mind. He fished it out of his back pocket, holding it up to show him. 

Grantaire gave a snort of amusement - wincing as though it hurt to do so. “Would’ve been useful last night,” he said, laying his head back on the pillow. “Maybe they’d have left me be if I’d given it to them. They didn’t believe me when I said I didn’t have it. Took my phone, though - jokes on them, it's a piece of shit."

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras said. “This is my fault.”

“No it’s not. It’s not like you mugged me. Unless you had a _very_ convincing disguise…”

“Don’t joke, please,” Enjolras whispered. “I feel awful. I was so frightened when Bossuet got that call…”

“Well relax,” Grantaire muttered. He turned his face away. “I’m alive. You can rest easy without that on your conscience…”

“That wasn’t why I was frightened!” Enjolras said. Did Grantaire really think that guilt was the only reason he’d been worried about him?

“Well why else you would be?”

“Because I care about you!” Enjolras snapped. “I thought---I thought you---Joly said something about pills, and I thought---”

Grantaire’s expression grew dour. “He told you about that? I didn’t want anybody to know…”

“He only told me because he thought you might have done it again,” Enjolras said. He looked down at his hands, folded in his lap. They were shaking. “I was _terrified_ , R…”

There was a beat of silence. Grantaire shifted on the bed.

“You never call me R,” he said quietly.

“Yeah, well, we’ve been sleeping together for months,” Enjolras reminded him. “I think we’re at that point, don’t you?”

“I guess,” Grantaire looked deeply uncomfortable. Sure, that could’ve been owed to the stitches. And the black-eye. And the nose. And the minor concussion. But more likely than not he just didn’t want to see Enjolras. Enjolras couldn't exactly blame him, all things considered.

“How are you feeling, anyway?” he asked when the silence that followed the exchange grew too heavy to bear. It was a stupid question, he realised, once the words had already left his mouth. 

“Not great,” Grantaire said. “They wouldn’t even give me morphine, because of my past history with addiction. They just handed me some ibuprofen and told me to suck it up.”

“Oh. That sucks.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire sighed loudly. “Where are Joly and Bossuet? I kinda hoped they’d come to see me…”

“They’re in the waiting room,” Enjolras told him. “With everyone else.”

“Everyone else?”

“The group. They’re all here. The moment we found out what happened we all crammed into a couple of taxis.”

Grantaire’s expression changed slightly. The crease in his forehead seemed to soften, and the faintest of smiles tugged at the corners of his mouth. 

“Oh,” he said. “That’s nice…”

“They all love you,” Enjolras said. “ _We_ all love you.”

The smile vanished. Enjolras wished he hadn’t said a thing.

“Why did they let you in?” Grantaire asked after a moment. The frown was back, deeper than ever. “I have Joly and Bossuet down as my emergency contacts…”

“Ah, well, about that…” Enjolras started awkwardly. “I kind of...told the nurse I was your boyfriend.”

Grantaire’s face went so white Enjolras feared he was about to go into cardiac arrest. At least he would be in the right place for it, he supposed.

“W-what?!”

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras said quickly. “I wanted to see you, and everyone was arguing their case and it was - well I panicked -”

“In front of all our friends?”

“Yeah. We’re going to have to deal with the fallout afterwards. I’m sorry, I know you probably don't..." Enjolras trailed off, unable to finish. He averted his eyes, certain they gave him away. “I’ll explain to them, don’t worry.”

“Good."

“Look, R, I - well, I’m sorry. About everything. I didn’t know what I did wrong, but then Courfeyrac said - oh, by the way, I told Courfeyrac. Sorry - anyway, Courfeyrac said I probably overstepped by asking you out to dinner, and---”

“It just felt too real,” Grantaire said. His voice was small, uncharacteristically quiet. Enjolras dared to look back at him. He was staring up at the ceiling. “The whole thing was a dumb idea. Friends with benefits type shit is usually a dumb idea, but then - with how I feel - it was just...a disaster waiting to happen. You didn’t do anything wrong, really, I just---”

“Wait,” Enjolras held up one hand to stop him. Grantaire’s eyes moved from the ceiling to look at him.

“What?”

“You - how you feel?” Enjolras asked. “How _do_ you feel?”

Grantaire grimaced as if he’d just gotten a whiff of a bad smell. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“No.”

“Don’t make me say it.”

“R---”

“I love you, Enjolras,” the words landed so hard Enjolras nearly fell out of his seat. He - no. He’d misheard, surely? He couldn’t mean - he didn’t - “I’ve loved you for the longest time. Since I met you, really.”

Enjolras felt his mouth drop open. Forget Grantaire - he was pretty sure _he_ was about to go into cardiac arrest. He wondered if he ought to slam the ‘call nurse’ button now to save valuable time.

“You---you?” he barely managed to splutter the word out. “You _love_ me?”

Grantaire scowled. “You didn’t know?”

“Of course I didn’t know!” Enjolras said, heart racing. Yup - definitely heading towards a cardiac arrest. “If I’d known I - oh my god!”

“I’m sorry. I know it’s probably the last thing you wanted to hear, I just - it’s why I freaked out, it was like a taste of something I could never have, I---”

“I love you too, you idiot!”

Silence followed the words, interrupted only by the mechanical whirrings and beepings of hospital machines in the ward around them. They stared at each other for so long that Enjolras was starting to consider leaping to his feet and fleeing the room. Maybe the Witness Protection Program could still help him. Grantaire blinked once, then twice, and finally:

“You’re joking, right?”

“No I’m not _joking!_ ” Enjolras said, voice leaping up several octaves. “Are you - do you really think I’d----seriously, R?!”

“But it doesn’t make sense,” Grantaire insisted. “You’re, like, a solid ten.”

“So are you!”

“No I’m not.”

“Well you are to me!”

More silence. Grantaire swallowed hard.

“So...all this time we were sleeping together…” he said, almost cautiously. “You…?”

“Loved you. Yes. I think it took a few weeks for it to sink in, but...well, I think I’ve felt that way about you for a while,” Enjolras said, looking down. His face was hot with embarrassment. He must have been the colour of a stoplight by now, he thought. “When I asked you to dinner I guess I was trying to make the leap from...whatever we were, to dating, I suppose…”

“Holy shit,” Grantaire said, voice awed. “Enjolras, I - I’m sorry, I have to ask one more time: are you serious?”

Enjolras glanced up again, seeing the shock and sincerity in Grantaire’s eyes. He was gorgeous, even bruised and scuffed - how could he not know that?

“When have you ever known me _not_ to be serious?” he asked.

Grantaire let out a breathless laugh. His face split into a wide grin - and then he hissed as it pulled the stitches in his cheek. “ _Fuck_.”

Enjolras shuffled his chair closer, reaching forwards to take Grantaire’s hand. Somehow the gesture felt more intimate than all the times they’d had sex combined. “Do you want me to call the nurse and yell at them until they give you morphine?” he offered.

Grantaire squeezed his hand. “No - I’m good,” he said. His eyes sparkled. “Better than ever, actually. I've got my boyfriend with me, afterall."

Enjolras beamed.

"Look, I don't mean to ruin the moment, but can you keep it down?" An old man's voice rasped from behind the curtain separating Grantaire's bed from another. Enjolras and Grantaire froze. They exchanged a look - and burst out laughing.


End file.
